Dupin followed her inside. He had no desire to play mind games. ‘We have the painting, Madame Pennec. It has been seized.’ Dupin paused for a moment. ‘André Pennec told us everything.’
Catherine Pennec gave no sign of even having heard Dupin’s words. She just kept walking, inscrutable. She stopped abruptly in the drawing room.
Dupin was right behind.
‘André Pennec? Really? He told you everything? No. He did not tell you everything. He didn’t tell you anything at all.’
Catherine Pennec sat down on the large, plush sofa. She sat there without moving for a few moments and then suddenly she broke into a short, shrill laugh. Not a particularly loud one. ‘What does he know? And what do you know? He knows nothing. Nothing… he told you nothing.’
‘You tell me then.’ Dupin was standing near the large fireplace, three or four metres away from her. Catherine Pennec was staring glassy-eyed at the floor. She seemed to be collapsing in on herself. Dupin waited for a long time. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Madame Pennec. You have the right to remain silent.’ There was another long pause. ‘Inspector Labat will drive you to the station in Quimper. You can speak to your lawyer there.’ Dupin turned to go out to the hall. He almost preferred it this way. ‘Come with me.’
At first he wasn’t sure if he had actually heard anything. Catherine Pennec was speaking so softly, whispering, her voice entirely changed now, deeper, hollow. Mechanical.
‘He was a failure. A complete failure. He never achieved anything. His whole life. He was too soft. He had no toughness to him. Or sense of purpose.’
Dupin turned around cautiously and stayed where he was.
‘He had courage once, just once. One single time. He hadn’t planned it at all, but for a moment he had the courage to stand up to his father. His father destroyed him, he destroyed his own son. He always reminded him of how weak he thought he was. That he was worthless, not a real Pennec, even less so after his mother died. And this constant delaying. But he took a stand once. He had to do it. He mustered the strength for it one time. That one night.’
She stopped. She seemed to be shaking her head slightly.
‘Isn’t it ironic? The knife was a present from his father when he was young. His Laguiole. It was sacred to him.’
A haunting smile played about her lips for a moment before her face slipped back into its mask.
‘We’d been waiting for our lives to begin for such a long time. We waited and waited, for years, decades… he wouldn’t die. Always waiting. All of it was ours. The hotel. The painting. The painting would have made anything possible. A different life. My whole life.’
Catherine Pennec had lifted her head and looked Dupin in the eye briefly. She seemed quite cheerful now.
‘Did André Pennec tell you that? Did he? That’s the truth. That’s how it truly was. My father-in-law was infinitely stubborn, an awful old man. What was he getting out of the painting? It was hanging there the whole time, it wasn’t benefitting anybody. He may only have had a few more days to live. If only we had known! A few days. We thought he had already changed the will.’
Catherine Pennec spoke as though she wanted to present her argument in a logical, systematic manner, without her emotion getting in the way. Her eyes were fixed on the floor again.
‘We knew about the donation. He told my husband that evening. He told him he was planning it and they argued. We only took what belonged to us. The painting belongs to us. Why should the museum get the Gauguin? It has always belonged to the family and my husband had a right to it. Once, he only took action once in his life. And then he got tearful all of a sudden. Pitifully so. And wanted to confess to everything. He was whining that he couldn’t bear it. He was so pathetic. I couldn’t allow it, for his own sake. I had to do something. He had ruined everything… His father was right to despise him… Oh yes. He despised him his entire life, even if he didn’t mean to. Utterly despised him.’ She looked Dupin in the eye again, cold and utterly self-assured. ‘I did too! I despised him. Anything might have been possible. It was there, everything was right there in front of us. Is that what André Pennec told you? Is it?’
Dupin was silent.
‘Did André Pennec come to you? Could he not bear it any more?’
‘No. He came to collect the painting. He was planning to take it to Paris as soon as possible. We arrested him in Le Pouldu. He’s on his way to the station now.’
Catherine Pennec broke into another of her abrupt, high-pitched laughs. She shook her head for a moment, as though in a trance, and then stopped, motionless. ‘How did you know where it was?’
Dupin thought he saw a sudden fear in her eyes. But her voice was perfectly steady. ‘I assumed you had to have it. And that you’d need somewhere to hide it at first.’
‘Why me?’
‘It wasn’t anything you said or did – it was what was missing. Everyone was anxious about the painting. You were the only one who wasn’t. The only person who had no reason to be anxious was the person who already had it. During our conversation the morning after the break-in, you and your husband didn’t even ask what had happened, or whether it might be some kind of smokescreen. And then yesterday, when we were talking openly about the painting, you missed another opportunity to bring up the break-in. If it hadn’t already been safely in your hands, you would have, rightly and despite your grief, expressed your worry about the painting. It was your forty million euro. By that point, you already knew that it was legally your possession. Your rightful inheritance. You should have been anxious and you weren’t in the least. That was what gave you way, although at first I didn’t notice it either. I only worked it out this morning.’
‘I –’ Catherine Pennec broke off.
‘Of course I was meant to think that you were grieving.’ Dupin really hadn’t wanted to have this conversation, but he felt a deep sense of satisfaction now.
‘You played your part very well, Madame, you showed precisely the feelings that were to be expected of you at any given time… but at some point the role became too complex. There was a lot you couldn’t control. If Beauvois hadn’t tried to steal the painting, you would never have been in a position to make the mistake you did.’
Catherine Pennec was silent. She was sitting there as though she’d turned to stone.
‘I didn’t know for sure. So, despite my suspicion that you had the painting, in order to prove it I still needed to find the thing. I had to catch you red-handed with it when you came to collect it. I thought you would come and fetch it. The hiding-place was just a guess. Madame Denis had mentioned the plots of land in the inheritance and you had to stash the painting somewhere temporarily – you wouldn’t do that here in the house. Nobody else knew about the shed. Only the family.’
Catherine Pennec didn’t seem to be listening at all. He didn’t care.
‘There were a lot of coincidences at work here. If, by pure coincidence, you had found out that Pennec never got around to changing his will, you wouldn’t have had to do a thing – the Gauguin would have been yours. You wouldn’t have had to switch the paintings that night, you wouldn’t have had to involve André Pennec – you wouldn’t have had to do anything at all. Not one thing. It would have fallen right into your lap… You…’ Dupin stopped. That was enough. He was exhausted. And livid. ‘We’re going now. That’s enough. Come with me.’
Dupin turned abruptly towards the door. Madame Pennec leapt up, as though Dupin had pressed a button. She stood up, her back ramrod straight, and then followed him in silence with her head held high.
The scene had played itself out incredibly quickly. Dupin just wanted to get out of there; he couldn’t stand this house a moment longer. Or any of this. He was already at the door, opening it in one swift motion. Madame Pennec was right behind him now. They went outside.
Le Ber had parked his car directly underneath the steps outside and was watching the house. He got out when he saw Dupin and Madame Pennec and went straight to the rear doo
r to hold it open.
He was a man of few words. ‘Bonsoir, Madame. I’ll be taking you to the station.’
Madame Pennec got in without a word. She looked utterly undaunted. Le Ber walked calmly around the car. ‘You’ll definitely call, Monsieur le Commissaire?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll call the Prefect?’
‘Yes.’
Le Ber smiled. ‘Good.’
He got in, started the engine and drove off. Dupin could see Madame Pennec through the car window. She had lowered her head. He kept watching the car until it reached the bridge and disappeared round the bend. Dupin crossed the street.
He had done it.
A little while later Dupin was standing where he had stood so many times in recent days, by the quay wall at the harbour. The tide had reached its highest point. It was quarter to eight and still very warm. This evening there wasn’t even a light breeze; the air was still but not close. A large sailing ship had anchored right in front of him. His eyes drifted slowly over it. It was a wonderful wooden ship, a real Atlantic-going vessel, quite clearly made for rough seas, for the ocean. It must have been at sea for many years. This was not a boat for a river. The tide had come in, the sea was here, you could smell it, taste it, feel it. It was truly beautiful down here at the harbour; and yet he was happy to be leaving Pont-Aven behind him, along with this case, and glad to be going back to Concarneau. The case would keep him busy for the next week anyway with all of the ‘follow-up’ he’d need to do; interrogations, minutes, forms, dozens of phone calls. The press. ‘Communication’. But that was enough for one day.
Dupin drove around the last of Pont-Aven’s roundabouts at quarter past eight and soon he was in Névez, then Trégunc, and finally in his own village. He had rolled the windows down and opened the roof as wide as it would go. The traffic was bad. The Festival des Filets Bleus, that’s where everyone was headed this evening. It didn’t bother him. Even the fact that he had to call the station didn’t bother him. He would get it over with quickly.
‘Monsieur le Préfet, Commissaire Dupin here.’
‘Ah, lo and behold! Mon Commissaire.’
‘I’m on my way to Concarneau.’
‘I’ve already spoken to Inspector Labat at length – as I’ve done every day recently; nobody could get hold of you in the last forty-eight hours. I… It…’
He paused. Dupin could practically hear Guenneugues struggling with himself on the other end of the line, deciding whether to get angry. Dupin would have taken it well, but the Prefect decided against it.
‘In the end it wasn’t such a complicated case after all. We’ve solved it.’
It was never a complicated case in the end. Dupin was used to hearing this; he heard it every time ‘we’ closed a case.
‘No, Monsieur le Préfet. I mean yes, we’ve solved it. And no, it wasn’t such a complicated case in the end.’ Dupin’s voice was friendly.
‘Everyone will be relieved. The press will welcome it. But I must say, you –’ Guenneugues’ tone seemed about to change. ‘Actually, when I think about it –’ He started again. ‘It was probably just… I think we can call it a great family tragedy.’ Guenneugues seemed to be searching for the right words. ‘So many emotions, such strong ones too. Over such a long time. It’s terrible really.’
Sometimes he surprised Dupin – even though this was very, very rare.
‘Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, that’s probably what it was. A family tragedy.’
‘Was it murder, the death of Loic Pennec?’
‘I think so.’
‘Have you got a statement from Madame Pennec?’
‘An initial statement, yes.’
‘Reliable?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘I’m going to hold a press conference this evening. I want articles in all the papers tomorrow about the case being solved. That painting made the case a national issue, Dupin.’
It didn’t sound like a complaint. There was pride in Guenneugues’ voice.
‘The papers will be going to print soon. We don’t need all the details yet, just the most important ones. My concern is only that our work be adequately conveyed… The police in Finistère have everything under control! I had the painting brought to Quimper straight away.’
‘I understand.’
Dupin was used to this. Guenneugues had solved the case. That was the message. That was what it always was.
‘Do you think the son planned the murder? Was it premeditated? The press will want to know.’
‘I don’t think so. That’s… It just happened. That evening.’
‘Why that evening?’
‘Pierre-Louis Pennec had told his son that the painting was going to be handed over to the Musée d’Orsay soon.’
Dupin actually didn’t want to say any more. He had remembered the knife. The Laguiole.
‘And? What do you think?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Had Pierre-Louis been planning it for a long time? To make the donation I mean.’
‘Not in any detail, but yes. He only started planning the specifics of it after visiting Docteur Pelliet.’
‘Yes. I understand. Was it greed? Was it about the forty million euro in the end or not?’
‘It was about deep wounds. Humiliation. Over the course of decades. I –’ Dupin was irritated, he didn’t want to get into a serious discussion with Guenneugues.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re right. It was about the forty million.’
‘What do you make of Madame Pennec?’
‘Are you asking what her motivations were?’
‘Yes.’
‘She is a cold-blooded person.’ Dupin was irritated with himself again.
‘Cold-blooded? That’s pretty dramatic, Commissaire.’
Dupin was silent.
‘And where did the second copy of the painting come from?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’d imagine Pierre-Louis Pennec owned it and his son knew about it. That it was in the hotel. We’ll find out.’
‘About that member of parliament, Monsieur André Pennec. He’s entitled to immunity.’
Dupin could feel his temperature rising. He had to be careful. ‘That will have to be lifted.’
‘I don’t know. Does it have to be? He does seem to be a man of integrity. I’ve been assured of that by many credible sources. And his lawyers –’
‘He was attempting to conceal the painting, a stolen painting worth forty million euro. Madame Pennec had offered him a quarter share of the money in the event of it being sold. That would have been ten million euro. Ten million!’
‘Madame Pennec gave him the task of selling it. It wasn’t his idea. He was due a share of the money of course, but a salesman always gets commission, there’s nothing untoward about that. And it is her painting. The Gauguin belongs to her, if I understand everything correctly.’
Guenneugues had been well briefed. That much was abundantly clear.
‘Someone has already called you.’
Guenneugues hesitated. ‘I’ve been getting calls. From Paris, from Rennes and Toulon.’ He hesitated again, audibly. ‘And from his lawyers too.’
Dupin was surprised to hear him admitting that. But he might have guessed. André Pennec had had two hours.
‘Madame Pennec didn’t know it was her property when she asked André Pennec to sell it. She assumed that Pierre-Louis Pennec had left it to the Musée d’Orsay. She and her husband swapped the paintings the night of the murder because they weren’t sure whether the change to the will had been finalised. And Catherine Pennec called André Pennec that same night, not long after the crime. She told André Pennec what had happened. André Pennec is therefore also guilty of being the accessory to a crime. He did not go to the police. He has systematically lied to me, thereby directly hindering the investigation.’
Dupin was really furious now.
‘André Pennec’s lawyers are saying that Madame Pennec definitely didn’t
clearly state that her husband had stabbed Pierre-Louis Pennec that night. She spoke about a ‘family crisis’. Madame Pennec was probably extremely hysterical and confused. Understandably.’
This situation was absolutely outrageous. And disgusting. This was what Dupin hated so much about his profession. He hated it with every fibre of his being. His voice rose again. ‘“Didn’t clearly state”, “family crisis”? What is that meant to mean?’
‘Did he agree to the task of stashing and selling the painting the night Catherine Pennec rang?’ Guenneugues’ voice was irritatingly matter of fact.
‘He… no.’
‘You see.’
‘But the next day –’
‘The next day, Madame Pennec learnt at the reading of the will that there had never been a change in the will. Pierre-Louis Pennec had not managed to write the donation into his will. She knew that the painting belonged to her. André Pennec met Catherine and Loic Pennec because of the reading of the will. He wasn’t leaving until the following day.’
‘But that’s… he knew –’ Dupin broke off. He hadn’t thought it through. That was his mistake. He really ought to have known better. Yes, this was how it went in cases like this, exactly like this. But in fact this was one of the very reasons he became a policeman; however unreasonably naive and arrogant it might sound, he was absolutely incapable of standing by if someone blithely thought they could get away with something. ‘This is a disgrace and you know it.’
Guenneugues ignored Dupin’s observation. ‘Madame Pennec did not know for sure whether the change had been made to the will. Her husband believed it had already been changed during the fight with his father that evening. But that was obviously an… extremely emotional situation.’
‘And what is that meant to mean, Monsieur le Préfet?’
‘It means that Catherine Pennec seems to me to be the only person there is to prosecute here… for the murder of her husband, so long as she doesn’t retract her confession when she gives her official statement.’
Dupin wanted to argue back. But with a great degree of self-control he managed to stay silent. So this was how the official version would go.
Death in Pont-Aven Page 25
