Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘I think André Pennec wanted to help during, how did you put it again, a great family tragedy? It takes a while to think clearly again after such traumatic events.’

  ‘“Wanted to help”? He “wanted to help”?’ Dupin had repeated the words in disbelief.

  Again, Guenneugues did not respond.

  ‘And this Beauvois, this art society chairman? That’s serious stuff. We should take it seriously. Very seriously indeed.’

  Dupin couldn’t believe his ears. Now Beauvois was one of the people to be rounded up and charged? He personally thought Beauvois was a creep, a ruthless narcissist. Who would – almost – step over bodies to get what he wanted, but only almost; and Dupin’s profession had taught him that this ‘almost’ was important.

  ‘Beauvois is small fry. Utterly insignificant in this case.’

  This wasn’t easy for Dupin. He felt angry just saying that. But his anger at what the Prefect had in mind was significantly greater.

  ‘You yourself had him brought to the station. Under questionable conditions. We really, really stuck our necks out there. There was a lot we couldn’t control. You knew that. I, of course, supported you.’

  Dupin was sick of this. He would find another way. With an enormous amount of effort, he managed to let it go. ‘As you say, it wasn’t a complicated case in the end, Monsieur le Préfet. And the most important thing is that the case is solved.’

  ‘There now! And I’m very pleased it’s solved, Monsieur le Commissaire. That was some good work.’ The Prefect broke into a low, conspiratorial laugh. ‘Madame Pennec is going to be one of the wealthiest convicts ever to grace a state prison in France, apart from Louis XVI…’ Guenneugues seemed to consider this joke a good note to start winding up the conversation on.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Au revoir then, Monsieur le Préfet.’

  ‘I would also like to –’

  Dupin hung up. It hadn’t escalated. He had hung up, but at least he hadn’t started shouting.

  And something had occurred to him. Dupin’s expression brightened all of a sudden. He had become quite friendly with a journalist from Ouest France in recent years and had already had ‘confidential’, off the record conversations with her a few times. Lilou Breval. Perhaps she would learn something extra about the case from an ‘unnamed source’. A few details of André Pennec’s entanglement in it. Dupin didn’t know if it would change things. But still. The press would love something like this. And Pennec would have enemies and they would know what to do with it.

  By now Dupin had reached the third of Concarneau’s five roundabouts, the one right by the high bridge. He took the road on the left into town, through the deep sea port. The journey had taken an especially long time this evening. Everyone was out and about. It was always like this on festival days. Even from the roundabout you could hear the muffled noises, the bass pounding. It was only just dawning on him that he wouldn’t be able to find a parking place as most parts of the centre of town would be closed. And if he wanted to get anywhere near his house he would have to drive all the way round Concarneau and come at it from the other side. But he was not in the mood to go turning around. He decided to leave the car in the industrial harbour, near the big tuna fishing boats and dockyards, and walk along the waterfront. He could always collect the car tomorrow.

  The deep-sea port was far from picturesque. But Concarneau did still have an impressive fleet of trawlers that sailed all around the world. They weren’t romantic fishing boats like the coastal fishermen’s ones, but an ultra-modern, high-tech fleet. However this fleet did not, and this was very important to Bretons, have barbaric drift nets like the large Japanese fleets did. These were powerful boats made for rough seas, with heavy lifting equipment onboard. Laure’s father had travelled on a boat like this for three decades and saw the world that way. Dupin had heard the stories. The harbour area, the buildings, the equipment and systems, the machines, everything was in working order here. Dupin liked this port just as much as he liked the much more attractive, historical harbour further downstream where the local fishermen still moored their little wooden boats.

  There were in fact some free parking spaces down here, even though lots of the festival-goers had clearly had the same idea. Dupin parked the car near the water. Unlike in Pont-Aven just now, a soft summer evening wind was coming in off the sea. Dupin took a deep breath. There was a strong smell from the sea this evening. Salt, seaweed, iodine. Breathing this air always changed everything.

  Dupin strolled along the waterfront. He had almost forgotten the stupid phone call he’d just had. The whole case seemed like some crazy, dark dream from the past; even though he knew that it would be on his mind for a long time to come, long after all the bureaucratic work was finished.

  He realised what he still wanted to do. He got out his phone.

  ‘Monsieur Dupin?’

  ‘Good evening, Madame Cassel.’

  ‘Should I get going? Where shall we meet?’

  Dupin stopped short, but then he laughed. ‘No… no. I –’

  ‘I can’t hear you properly. It’s so loud at your end, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Concarneau, at the Festival des Filets Bleus – or rather I’m walking down by the harbour and the festival is on today. I’ve got to walk right through the town; you can’t get into the centre by car.’ He knew he was babbling.

  ‘I see. So was that the last act in the drama, did you solve the case?’

  ‘Yes. The case is solved. It –’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Dupin was glad to hear that.

  ‘That was a crazy case. Do you always get such crazy cases?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have a crazy profession.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Like in a crime novel.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. To be honest your world doesn’t seem any less crazy.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  It was very loud now, Dupin was approaching the main square and a band was playing on the largest of the four stages.

  ‘Well… then, then… I suppose, I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime. It’s hard to lose touch with anyone in the back of beyond.’

  Dupin laughed. He liked how she put things. ‘Hang on… just a moment.’ He turned into a side-street where it was a little quieter.

  ‘You live in Brest, right?’

  ‘Yes. Just on the outskirts, right by the sea. When you’re coming from the west –’

  ‘Do you like penguins?’

  ‘Penguins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do I like penguins?’

  ‘Do you ever go to the Océanopolis?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  ‘They have amazing penguins. Gentoo penguins, Adelie penguins, King penguins, Emperor Penguins, Blue penguins, Crested penguins, Yellow-eyed penguins, Banded penguins.’

  Marie Morgane Cassel laughed out loud. ‘Yes, their penguins are amazing.’

  ‘We could go and see the penguins together sometime.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘Let’s. You have my number.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Au revoir then, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Au revoir, Madame Professeur.’

  They both hung up at the same time. A moment later it occurred to Dupin that he had actually wanted to thank Madame Cassel officially for all her help. He wouldn’t have got very far without her. He wanted to thank her on behalf of the police but he could do it another time.

  Dupin went back to the harbour, and continued on to the main square and Pénéroff Quay and the Amiral. The festival seemed livelier than it had in recent years. This was already his third festival. (Which he never admitted to anyone; Nolwenn had explained that he could only mention it on the tenth or fifteenth occasion at the earliest.)

  Regardless of how fun it was and how big a part alcohol played (as it tended to do at all Breton festivals) the Festival des
Filets Bleus was a highly emotional affair for the Concarnese. It was clearly the most important festival in the village, but it was also a shining symbol. The Concarnese were celebrating themselves: their ability not to lose confidence during the worst of times and their ability to overcome hardships together. Every child knew the story… and told it too. Nolwenn told it every year – three or four weeks before the festival she would bring up the topic as if by chance. Up until the late nineteenth century, sardines had been like gold in Brittany, there were eight hundred (!) boats in Concarneau’s sardine-fishing fleet alone. Nolwenn had a large engraving in the office which showed part of the fleet at sea before coming into harbour. There were so many boats side by side that you could hardly see the water. The fishermen and the whole fishing industry had lived off the erratic, wandering fish that travelled in gigantic shoals. But in 1902, the sardines disappeared overnight; they simply vanished without a trace for seven whole years. It was a catastrophe. Fishermen, factory workers and many other people lost their livelihoods. Poverty, hunger and depression prevailed. There was a stark contrast when the rich Parisian bathers came to stay during the summer. So some of the artists hit upon the idea of organising a charity festival, to which the whole region would be invited. They wanted to help in a very practical sense but more than anything they wanted to create a symbol of hope. The festival was called after the blue nets that hauled the fickle fish out of the sea: as a kind of incantation to call them back. Even the very first festival was a jolly affair. And a great success too, with a considerable amount of money raised. Celtic music, dances and dancing competitions, costumes and costume competitions, tombolas and the crowning of the queen of the festival. There was food – tuna because it was all the Concarnese had left – and above all there was drinking. Concarneau has celebrated its festival ever since, for over a hundred years.

  As always there was an exquisite smell in the air, fresh fish grilled over huge wood fires. Dupin was practically fainting with hunger. He considered having one of those delicious tuna fillets; almost raw, very well seared on either side. His mouth was watering but he decided against it. He wanted to be alone for a little while first. Perhaps he’d come back to the festival later. Nolwenn would be there. Along with a few other people he knew.

  Lily had already spotted the Commissaire as he walked in. She was standing behind the counter fiddling with the espresso machine.

  Dupin smiled. A brief but broad smile.

  ‘Everything worked out all right then!’ she called to him, only to busy herself with the machine again straight away. It was hissing beautifully.

  Dupin didn’t need to say anything to Lily. He sat down. Everyone was outdoors; it was practically empty in the Amiral.

  The entrecôte would be sitting in front of him in a few minutes, accompanied by Philippe’s famous sautéed potatoes (which was the only food Dupin ever allowed to replace his beloved chips). Mustard. A Languedoc. He was sitting in his favourite dinner spot, the restaurant’s only round table, tucked away into the furthest corner. You could see everything from here. Through the large window you could see the square and the ville close, the harbour with its brightly coloured fishing boats; but above all – even now with the great throngs outside – you could see the sea, always the sea.

  Dupin looked out. Far into the distance.

  Yes, all was right with the world.

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  First published in the German language as Bretonische Verhältnisse. Ein Fall für Kommissar Dupin by Jean-Luc Bannalec © 2012, Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne/ Germany © 2012, Jean-Luc Bannalec

  English translation © Sorcha McDonagh, 2014

  This ebook edition first published in 2014

  Designed and typeset by Madeline Meckiffe

  Jacket design by mavrodesign.com

  Cover photo © www.relaxfoto.de

  All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–1–78094–293–3