The Fleur de Sel Murders_A Brittany Mystery

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  “It’s a pity there are no other details about the sabotage.” Rose sounded disappointed.

  The Salt Land hadn’t been a peaceful place back then either. Even then it had been the setting for various conflicting interests, substantial financial interests. The setting for cunning and treachery—for criminality. Dupin discovered something odd: two salt traders had been punished for breeding “monstrous creatures” in the pools, for instance gigantic sole (two meters long?!) and crosses between mussels and crabs—which was too much even for Dupin’s very active imagination.

  * * *

  “Sorry. I was with the mayor. We’ve got so many things to discuss.”

  Madame Bourgiot’s words did not sound like an apology. As she came toward them now, self-confident and challenging, she no longer had much in common with the Madame Bourgiot they knew from their first conversation. Commissaires Rose and Dupin were still standing at the “Bloody Salt” exhibit.

  “For starters, we hope that in spite of the … incidents, everything carries on as normal in the White Land. The shops, the tourism. And,” she hastened to add, “of course, the most important thing, the paludiers’ harvests. The salt must not in any way be linked to the incidents.”

  It wasn’t clear what Madame Bourgiot meant by this. Could the police please abandon all investigation so that no damage is done? The head of the Centre made no move to invite them into the conference room where they had been sitting that afternoon. The Centre was empty; even the employee who had still been there just now had obviously left.

  “There’s still no solid evidence that all of this is specifically related to the salt and the White Land after all.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  Rose’s retort was sharp and a tenth of a second quicker than Dupin’s: “What are they related to then, Madame Bourgiot—these ‘incidents’?”

  “I assumed that finding out was precisely what your job was, Monsieur le Commissaire. Mine is to promote the White Land. To ensure no damage is done. That—”

  “You spoke to Lilou Breval on Monday of this week. For three minutes. Are you aware that you have perverted the course of justice in a murder inquiry by not telling us about that? And that because of this you are among the chief suspects?”

  Rose sounded all the more threatening because of how coolly and matter-of-factly she spoke.

  Judging by the expression on her face, Madame Bourgiot wasn’t unfazed by this—but she composed herself again quickly.

  “If there had been anything relevant in that phone call, I would naturally have told you about it,” she said, trying to play it down.

  “What exactly was your conversation about?” Dupin asked brusquely. “What did Lilou Breval want from you?”

  He was not in the mood for clichés and these irritating verbal skirmishes.

  “She asked me about the use of barrels in salt manufacturing here in the Guérande. We spoke in depth with Madame Laurent about the blue barrels this afternoon. I told Lilou Breval what I’ve told you: that I don’t know anything about blue barrels, apart from the fact the cooperative—”

  “What else did she want from you?”

  “Just that. The blue barrels stuff. It wasn’t a long phone call, as you know. I wasn’t aware it would help you progress in your investigation to know that she was interested in blue barrels—seeing as you told us exactly that.”

  A good comeback. She went on. “She asked whether it was possible to speed up the manufacture of salt with chemical additives. An odd question. She herself couldn’t give me more detail on what she was driving at.”

  Lilou Breval was concerned—although they’d already known this—about what they were also concerned about: What could have been in the barrels? On Monday evening it seemed she still didn’t have a clue, and the same went for Tuesday evening during the phone call with Dupin. Perhaps even up to her death?

  “Have you spoken to anyone about Madame Breval’s interest in the barrels?”

  This was important. Perhaps that alone had set off the chain of events.

  “No. I forgot about it immediately. It wasn’t significant.”

  “You didn’t speak to anyone about it?”

  “No.”

  “If you’re behind it all, Madame Bourgiot, then Lilou inadvertently warned you—and provoked her own death.”

  Commissaire Rose had phrased this as a simple working hypothesis. Madame Bourgiot held her gaze, impassive. “That’s true. But it’s ludicrous. You know that.”

  “Now that we’re learning things you were keeping quiet about, what else is there?”

  Rose’s gaze wandered around the room.

  “Nothing at all. Lilou Breval, as I mentioned, spoke to me in more depth a year ago, here in the Centre. After that we spoke briefly a few times. About various things, a handful of questions. I do the public relations work too, after all. It’s standard procedure.”

  She hadn’t told them about these brief phone calls this afternoon either. Admittedly it had been more of a conversation with Madame Laurent than with Madame Bourgiot. Still. On a murder case, you at least mentioned something like that for the record.

  “How often did these ‘brief calls’ happen this year?” Rose snorted.

  “Four or five times.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Things she thought were coming to a head. As she was of course free to think.”

  “What do you mean by ‘coming to a head’?” Dupin pricked up his ears.

  “She suspected there was a drama to the competitive environment here in the White Land, although that’s very far from the truth.”

  “More specifically?”

  “The different parties’ various interests. The independents, the—”

  “Wasn’t it something more specific?”

  They knew of this interest of Lilou’s, that wasn’t new. But in such general terms, it didn’t help them make any progress. And Dupin was less and less convinced her interest had anything to do with the core of the case at all. They were still just groping around in the dark far too much.

  “She had very vague questions, who had what plans to take over whom—those kinds of things. Lilou Breval’s suspicion was very unspecific.”

  “Really?” Rose said harshly.

  Madame Bourgiot gave a barely audible groan. “She wanted to know, for instance, whom Le Sel had made takeover bids to, which we in the Centre wouldn’t know. And whether Le Sel wanted to introduce a pump system, if they’ve filed an application. But she also had questions about the cooperative. How strong it had become in recent years. Since Jaffrezic became the head of it. She wanted to know what role the Centre du Sel actually played—she said that it was for another major article about the Gwenn Rann, about the business and economic aspects of it this time. But none of that came up in the conversation on Monday.”

  “Has Le Sel filed an application for the construction of a pump system?”

  “Yes, they have. Six months ago.”

  “And?”

  “It is being discussed.”

  “And the expansion of the salt marshes—right into the nature reserve? We know you’re a powerful person in the White Land. You could make the expansions to the manufacturing area possible.”

  “That’s also still to be decided in the conventional way. That’s out of my hands; it’s a matter of politics. The procedure for these kinds of applications is fully and transparently regulated.”

  This was all futile. And much too haphazard. Dupin was getting impatient. They wouldn’t get anywhere like this.

  “Have there been any more results from the tests in the salt marshes yet? It’s crucial for us. I’ve already told you that the institute is terrorizing us. Madame Cordier is determined to stop everything here. Production and sales. She’s adamant. I won’t allow it,” Madame Bourgiot said.

  There was something unintentionally comical in the way she complained about a ruthless person in a ruthless way.

  Rose was just ab
out to answer when her mobile rang.

  “Yes?” She stepped aside. It was clear Rose was listening carefully, not saying a word herself. It was some time before she uttered a “great.”

  She hung up a moment later and turned back to them. “As soon as the tests turn up anything relevant, you’ll hear about it, Madame Bourgiot.”

  Visibly relieved, she added in Dupin’s direction: “Monsieur Jaffrezic is fishing on the Loire this evening. Not by the sea as usual. With an old friend. He’s very well.”

  Madame Bourgiot looked at Rose with undisguised irritation. Then she said with emphasis: “I will do everything to keep the … incidents here in check as much as possible by whatever means available to me. The Centre has been under my leadership for four years now. So far it’s been a success story. And I’m not about to let that change.”

  There was no doubt she was serious. And she was an intelligent person; she must have known that this ruthless vow—especially the vow to be ruthless—couldn’t have won her any favors with police investigating a murder. But she obviously didn’t give a damn. Dupin would have loved to know why she had been so nervous this afternoon, at the beginning of their conversation.

  “That’s it for this evening, Madame Bourgiot. For now.” Rose managed to make an unambiguous threat out of these clichéd words.

  She turned around, walked calmly back to the book corner, picked up the cookbook again briefly—clearly to memorize the title—and then headed for the door.

  Dupin followed her, lost in thought.

  * * *

  Rose was leaning with her back against her car. Her hands in her pockets. The small police Peugeot right next to it was exactly half the length of her Renault. If that. At the other end of the dusty parking lot there was a chic new dark green Range Rover. That must have been Bourgiot’s car.

  Rose looked, for the very first time, worn out; but her clothes still looked like she’d just put them on. Toward the sea the sky was tranquil, a delicate pink working its way through mysterious shades and into a bright, vivid watercolor blue that got darker and darker the higher it went. The first stars would be out soon. The sky melded seamlessly into outer space this evening.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  Rose’s gaze wandered vaguely in the direction of the Centre as she spoke. After a small pause, she added: “Or any of the others, for that matter. Nobody is saying anything. Nobody.”

  Dupin leaned his back against his car, opposite hers: “So we now can turn to Monsieur Jaffrezic.”

  Rose smiled vaguely. “Madame Laurent is hosting a dinner in Vannes this evening. She’s welcoming guests from the Île de Noirmoutier. Paludiers. We’re expected tomorrow morning.”

  “They cultivate salt on the Île de Noirmoutier too?”

  “Yes, but on a much smaller plot of land.”

  “Does Le Sel have a finger in that pie?”

  “Not yet, as far as we know. But I’m having that looked into.”

  “Where are we seeing Jaffrezic? How long does it take him to get back from the Loire?”

  “Inspector Chadron will let him know to expect us tomorrow morning too.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” Dupin had assumed it would definitely be this evening.

  “We’ve booked you and your inspectors a room. In Le Grand Large. At this point, we all need to get some sleep.”

  Dupin had only just gotten used to the idea that Commissaire Rose survived without any food or sleep.

  “I—”

  “That’s it for today. Nobody else is available. We have to marshal our thoughts. I’m driving home now.”

  This was not Dupin’s way of doing things. Just calling it a day now. They needed to make progress. Apart from the conversation with Jaffrezic, all day he had wanted to be in Daeron’s salt marsh by himself, although he didn’t know what exactly it was he wanted there. Above all, he had wanted to take another look at Lilou’s house. But perhaps Rose’s idea wasn’t that ridiculous. Perhaps he shouldn’t do any more this evening. Today had been never-ending. His shoulder had also—for the first time since this afternoon—started to hurt badly; he would need to take another pill. Above all, his stomach was making it unmistakably clear that he finally needed to eat something. Something proper. And despite all of the medical benefits of coffee, his stomachache wouldn’t be improved by any more caffeine.

  And most important of all: this way he would actually be able to call Claire back on her birthday in peace and quiet. And tell her in more detail why he just couldn’t come today. And also how sad that made him. And this was all during such an important phase of their relationship too. Right now, they should have been sitting together in La Palette. Right now.

  “Fine.”

  He would be able to have a quick word with Riwal and Kadeg, in any case. In the restaurant of Le Grand Large. The sole, he thought—today he’d have the sole he’d wanted yesterday evening. That was something.

  “Good night, Commissaire. Try to get some sleep.” Rose’s words sounded friendly, but like an order at the same time.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Dupin was standing in front of Le Grand Large. He had let Riwal know over the phone and asked the inspector to reserve a quiet spot in the restaurant; Riwal had asked twice whether he wouldn’t prefer to just go to Concarneau, he’d also be able to change his clothes that way. “Which would definitely be nice.” Riwal had asked it in an oddly persistent and considerate way. Then he had reported on Kadeg’s test drive. The simulation. Kadeg had just called from La Roche-Bernard. The number was 2:35. It had taken Kadeg two hours and thirty-five minutes. Dupin did some calculations. At night there would be virtually nobody on the road. But it wouldn’t be possible in under two hours and fifteen or twenty minutes. So what did that mean? Maxime Daeron could very possibly have managed it. So at least they knew that for sure now. Riwal had of course already brought Rose “up to speed.”

  Dupin locked his car.

  Like this morning, the tide was out. He walked to the unpaved edge of the quay. There was a sheer drop of three or four meters. Just as they had earlier, the boats lay patiently on the sea floor, weakly lit by yellow lights from the village that didn’t reach far and faded quickly in the clear night. A little farther out into the lagoon, where there must have been some water still, there were two bright lights visible, presumably light buoys. Or boats. They were dancing silently back and forth. Even farther out, where the salt marshes must have been, there was a large, deep, black hole. Nothing, nothing was visible, as if everything had been swallowed up. The night loomed above the sea. A dark presence.

  Dupin noticed how drained he felt. But at the same time he felt uneasy, deep down inside. Tingly, like quicksilver, a crazy feeling. If he were honest he was suddenly not in any mood to speak again. To anyone. Somehow none of this had been a good idea. And the journey to Concarneau wouldn’t take all that long. And what’s more: Nolwenn had said he should come back.

  He turned round, walked to his car, and got in. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he smiled. A liberating smile. He started up the engine and drove away.

  * * *

  It was a quarter past eleven. Dupin parked his car as close to the Amiral as possible; the big parking lot right by the harbor was empty. He just had to cross the street and he’d be saved. And best of all: at home. Back on home turf. It had been a tedious journey, but he had got through it without any issues, taking the dual carriageway the whole way. There hadn’t been any more Skippy sightings. He had listened to Bleu Breizh the whole trip, although he’d kept the volume low.

  He had let Riwal and Nolwenn know he wouldn’t be staying in Le Croisic. They were both in total agreement with his decision. Riwal and Kadeg were sitting in the restaurant, and by the sound of things, they had already started dinner. It had been a demanding day for them too.

  Dupin climbed carefully out of the small car. A real breeze greeted him, wonderful. It smelled like the free, open sea here.
It did him good.

  The tall arched windows of the Amiral, where he usually began and ended his day—an unshakable and relished ritual—were still brightly lit. Dupin was relieved. The elegant, wide, white building from the nineteenth century with the red awning and the wooden shutters stood in the surreal film-studio light of warm, yellowish streetlamps.

  The lights stayed red, they always did that at this spot, he had never known them to do anything different. But he had never seen anyone waiting at the lights. Moments later he was opening the heavy door.

  His usual spot was taken. He almost let out a frustrated sigh, but at the last minute he held back.

  He thought he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t have surprised him, in his condition. But no, his eyes weren’t deceiving him. In his favorite chair sat—Claire. Unmistakably. And on the table in front of her lay a hefty package wrapped in colorful paper. There was also a bottle of champagne and an enormous plate of langoustines.

  Claire saw him immediately. Her chestnut brown eyes shone warmly. Then she stood up, sweeping away strands of her shoulder-length dark blond hair. She looked embarrassed. He was not dreaming. It was Claire. Claire, in all her reserved beauty, so unique to the women of Normandy. He had once shown a photo of her in the commissariat. Riwal had then begun an homage to Normandy women, who had been considered the most beautiful in France for centuries and often won the Miss France contests. Dupin had cringed outwardly, but deep down he had been glowing with pride.

  “I … I’m here.”

  Unbelievable. It was unbelievable.

  She had come to visit him on her own birthday. And this after the disappointment that nothing had come of their long-planned evening in Paris. And despite his miserably stammered words this morning. Now he understood why Nolwenn and Riwal had wanted to make sure he drove back to Concarneau this evening.

  “Bon anniversaire, mon amour.”

  He hugged her. Kissed her. And looked at her again, still somewhat lost for words, and as if he had to make sure she was really there.