The Fleur De Sel Murders Page 18

  Jaffrezic. Hammer in hand. He was standing in front of an upside-down, bright yellow, rectangular wheelbarrow.

  “They’ve been built in the exact same way for the last twelve hundred years, wooden down to the very last piece. We use them to transport the salt through the salt marshes—and this bloody specimen here seems like it’s literally twelve hundred years old.”

  Jaffrezic was hammering a wooden bolt on the wheel.

  “I had warned you about walking through the salt marshes at night or early in the morning. We talked about the dwarves. But not about the dreadful gigantic fox, the white woman, and the dragon,” he said, then burst out laughing. “Fire-breathing monsters hide here, and a girl or woman with a pure soul has to be sacrificed to them once a year. Then they keep quiet, leave the swamp to us salt farmers, and we can go about our work in peace.”

  He laughed again. Dupin was speechless. He had not been expecting Jaffrezic or yet more fantastical myths.

  “Maybe you’re one of those Christian dragon killers? A Parisian commissaire in Brittany.”

  Dupin was aware this was not meant as flattery, because he knew a slew of Breton dragon-conqueror myths. The Christian knights were really figures of fun. In the myths the poor native heathens—and even the greatest heroes amongst them—each fought in vain for hundreds of years against the most gruesome of all dragons until—in a sign from God—a Christian knight came along and casually ordered the dragons to jump off a cliff and drown. Which the monsters then obediently did on the spot—so powerful was the Christian word and so simple was the moral.

  “But if that’s the case, then you’ve come too late this time, Monsieur le Commissaire. You haven’t been able to save the virgin.”

  Jaffrezic’s face changed as he spoke, and he looked troubled. The events of recent days seemed to have taken their toll on him too.

  Dupin wanted to get back to the real world finally. He composed himself. “What did Lilou Breval want from you when she called you on Monday afternoon?”

  Jaffrezic looked at Dupin, clearly at a loss. Dupin wasn’t sure why.

  “The commissaire just asked me the same thing. Is everyone investigating separately now? Parallel investigations, an interesting approach.”

  “Commissaire Rose?”

  “She left ten minutes ago. She got a call suddenly. Apparently it was important.”

  This was outrageous. Dupin remembered Rose’s inquisitorial tone. And he had almost felt guilty about going it alone!

  “In any case. The journalist was here once about a year ago. It was about a big article.” There was emotion in Jaffrezic’s voice.

  “But what did she want on Monday?”

  “Most of the information in the article came from me. I can send you—”

  “Monsieur Jaffrezic, please…”

  “She wanted to know if I knew anything about some kind of barrel. Blue barrels! And what they might be about. I told her about sel moulin. And that there are no other blue barrels apart from those ones. Just like I told you.”

  “Did she say anything about her suspicions or hint at anything?”

  “No.”

  If Jaffrezic was behind all of this, Lilou would have unwittingly been warning him. Just like Madame Bourgiot.

  “Did she say that she had seen the barrels somewhere herself?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone about Lilou’s question?”

  “Why would I? It’s all nonsense. Much as that journalist was very nice.” His voice had grown hard. Like it had yesterday morning on the same subject.

  “We know about the blind pool on the edge of Maxime Daeron’s salt marsh, Monsieur Jaffrezic.”

  Dupin just had to give it a go. If the entire squad turned up at the pool any moment now, the rumor would go round anyway about the police showing a particular interest in the pool.

  “What do you mean?” Jaffrezic’s pupils darted rapidly back and forth.

  “We’ve found the pool. The one it was all poured into. Our chemists have already begun testing it.”

  Dupin scrutinized Jaffrezic. It was a moment before Jaffrezic started to snort with laughter. “This is getting more and more ridiculous. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that your pool?”

  “I have no idea which one you mean.”

  Dupin made a vague gesture. “The one next to your salt marsh over there, next to Maxime Daeron’s.”

  “Ah. I think there are a few around there. But none of them are mine. I’d know.”

  “It’s two or three hundred meters from Maxime Daeron’s hut. To the north.”

  “Then I definitely don’t know it. I can’t see any of Daeron’s land next to my salt marsh anyway. And my salt marsh is, as you know, to the southwest of Daeron’s. It’s quite far away.”

  Even Dupin knew by now that in the labyrinthine chaos of the salt gardens, saying one salt marsh was “next to” another one meant nothing at all. He had to admit it was plausible that Jaffrezic had never seen the pool before.

  “Who owns it then?”

  “Ask at the land registry office. Probably nobody. And therefore the local authority own it.”

  “Doesn’t it belong to Maxime Daeron—or Le Sel?”

  “As I say: I really don’t know.”

  Dupin ran a hand through his hair. His mobile rang.

  Rose. He took a few steps to one side and picked up.

  “Where are you? I’m standing at the blind pool. The two chemists should be here any moment.”

  “And I’m where you just were. I’m speaking to Monsieur Jaffrezic.”

  “The first time I called you was at your hotel at half past six. I was told you’d had to go back to Concarneau last night after all. I thought it would be irresponsible to arrange the investigation based on travel plans you’d kept from me.”

  Dupin was still wondering what to say when Rose changed the topic.

  “We might have something. Here in the pool. Something interesting.”

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  Dupin hung up.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Has the dragon been spotted? Well, good luck then—wind and sun permitting … The closest cliffs are on the Côte Sauvage beyond Le Croisic.”

  Dupin made for the gap in the earthen wall and vanished, only to reappear moments later. Jaffrezic must have expected this, as he was grinning at him. “Take a sharp left after the wall, walk along the large etier for a few hundred meters until you reach a very large hut on your right. Turn left and you’ll come to a little path that you’ll recognize. And then keep going to Daeron’s salt marsh.”

  Dupin nodded gratefully—and tensely—and vanished for good.

  * * *

  It looked strange. It was only dimly visible in the cloudy water—Dupin hadn’t noticed it before. But the sun was a bit higher in the sky now and was falling on the water at a different angle. About four meters from the edge of the pool there was a low wooden structure. Forty centimeters tall, he estimated, half the height of the water level. It reminded him a little of oyster and mussel beds. It looked as though, and this was still difficult to make out, a net was stretched over it. A greenish color. Dupin had walked around the long reservoir pool again. The structure under the water was huge, taking up at least a quarter of the pool.

  He was standing in front of Rose again now and she had finally stopped speaking on the phone. Only one of the chemists was on the scene, kneeling next to an enormous aluminum suitcase.

  “A water sample is already on its way to the laboratory. They’re going to do a few preliminary tests here.”

  Rose was tense. The same way Dupin had seen her yesterday after the news that the body had been found.

  “What is that structure?” Dupin asked, annoyed that he hadn’t seen it earlier.

  “We’re going to take a look at it as soon as we confirm the water isn’t contaminated.”

  “Do t
hey have structures like this in the salt marshes? Are they, or something similar, used in the salt-extraction process—in the large reservoir pools?”

  “No. They’re not used anywhere.”

  Dupin walked on a few meters. “The monks used to use some of the pools for other purposes too. For mussel farming, for example. Or fish farming.”

  Rose looked curiously at Dupin. She was interested. Dupin’s mind went back to the display board again (he had wisely left out the “monstrous creatures”). This was probably not a case of clandestine mussel or perch farming, but still.

  “They used the pool for things that have nothing to do with salt.”

  His instinct told him that this was a possible starting point. Perhaps the only one. Although it meant they were starting again from scratch—because it was not at all clear what might be going on here.

  “That would explain why we haven’t got anywhere with all things salt.”

  Rose still hadn’t said a word. But her face showed she agreed.

  “If there’s a net stretched over it, then there must be something underneath the net—something that the net is meant to keep in. Let’s concentrate on the pool and its secrets.” She was right.

  Dupin turned to the chemist. “Have you found any reason yet not to get into the pool?”

  “No. But as you say: not yet. I would wait.”

  Dupin was struck more by the undertone than the expert’s explicit recommendation.

  He ran a hand through his hair. If it had been up to him, he would simply have got into the pool. He would have liked to get a good look at the structure. To see if there was anything to be found under the net—and if so, what that was.

  “Your inspectors are bright,” Rose said appreciatively, raising her eyebrows. “We’ve got the maps and information. If you want to get as close to this reservoir pool as possible by car, you’re actually better off parking at Daeron’s salt marsh. That’s the shortest route if you want to transport anything fairly heavy here.”

  “And who owns the pool?”

  Rose seemed to want to let the suspense build.

  “It used to belong to one Mathieu Pélicard. He was the last registered owner.”

  Dupin looked confused.

  “The registration dates back to 1889. At his death, there were apparently no heirs and it was not passed on to anyone. That means that at some point it became the property of the local authority. These salt marshes were laid out differently at the time; it was a part of a salt marsh that doesn’t even exist anymore, your inspectors have found old maps too.”

  “The local authority—so Madame Bourgiot, to some extent.”

  “Yes.”

  This was interesting.

  “Which might mean something, but then again it might not. The pool is just sitting here fallow. It would obviously be easiest for the paludiers on either side to approach the pool without being noticed. Especially for Daeron.”

  “If you were planning something criminal, would you—”

  Dupin was interrupted by Rose’s mobile, which seemed to be set on a much higher volume than yesterday. She answered it.

  “Yes?” Rose listened intently.

  Dupin could immediately tell something wasn’t right. Something was not right at all.

  She kept listening for what felt like forever. Only then did she speak.

  “We’ll be right there … Yes … Tell everyone to leave the area right now. Everyone. Nobody goes in there. Apart from the forensics team.”

  Rose hung up, closed her eyes briefly, and then looked piercingly at Dupin:

  “Maxime Daeron. Damn it. He was found ten minutes ago by a housekeeper. In the house on the Île aux Moines. Two island police officers are on the scene. He’s in a kind of garage where he had been building a boat. It’s looking like suicide. One shot, to the right temple.”

  Dupin stood as though rooted to the spot. “Crap.”

  Surely this wasn’t happening. What the hell was going on here?

  Rose was already hurrying away, her phone to her ear.

  Dupin turned to the chemist, who was looking expectantly at him: “Let us know as soon as it’s safe to get into the pool. I’ll send an inspector.”

  A moment later, Dupin was also walking swiftly away, making for Daeron’s salt marsh, his own mobile to his ear.

  “Riwal—where are you?”

  “Almost at the car, still in Guérande, we’re—”

  “I need Kadeg. Tell him to come to the salt marshes immediately, to the large reservoir pool at the far end of Daeron’s salt marsh. There’s a man standing there—one of the forensic chemists. Kadeg is to get into the pool as soon as the chemist says it’s not dangerous and look at the wooden structure that was installed in there. In painstaking detail. See if there’s something underneath the net. I want to know everything—maybe someone could help him.”

  “All right, boss.”

  “Daeron is dead.”

  “Maxime?”

  This technically correct follow-up question sounded macabre in such official tones.

  “Yes. By the looks of things, it was probably suicide.”

  “I’d be wary of that.”

  Dupin almost laughed, this sentence sounded so odd. But he knew what Riwal meant.

  “I … yes. We’ll look at it very carefully. I’m driving to the gulf. Speak to you later.”

  * * *

  It was a gruesome scene. A young policewoman greeted the two commissaires at the gate and led them straight to the extension, which had been built as a garage at some point but was now a workshop. A large one, at that. Professionally fitted out, it looked like a carpentry workshop. In the middle was a boat made from dark wood, clearly a sailing boat, and Dupin estimated it was more than four meters long. Still in the process of being built, rough around the edges, but largely finished. A laborious task; it must have taken years. The floor of the room was lined with cork, the walls were whitewashed, and workbenches and cupboards on two sides lined the walls right up to the ceiling. There was just one large window onto the garden.

  The blood had sprayed up as far as the ceiling. A lurid painting.

  Daeron was in the bow. On his right temple was a wound clotted with blood. His head was half tilted to the left, the exit wound from the bullet not visible from this angle. His legs were crossed strangely. His left arm rested at a sharp angle, his right arm and open right hand outstretched. The gun was about five centimeters from the fingers of his right hand, having shifted slightly, but not much. A huge amount of blood must have pumped out—there was a massive pool of it that had long since seeped into the as-yet-untreated wood.

  Rose had been outside for a few minutes—having taken a quick look at everything—making phone calls, Dupin assumed. She was just coming back in and making her way toward the pathologist, a gaunt, older man with delicate features who seemed on the ball. He was standing near the boat, slightly hunched. Dupin was right beside him.

  “What can you say about the time of death?” Rose asked.

  “He’s wearing the exact same clothes as when I visited him yesterday,” Dupin murmured. “It could have happened in the evening or nighttime.”

  His memory was laughably bad sometimes, but it worked excellently well when it came to frivolous or ridiculous things. (Until the end of his days, for example, he would be able to recite all the chemical formulae from his schooldays, CO2 assimilation, photosynthesis…)

  “That fits with my preliminary examinations.” Surprisingly, the pathologist didn’t sound offended. Before now, Dupin had known nothing but chronically ill-tempered representatives of the pathologist species. “I think he died between eleven P.M. and two A.M.”

  “At this point, do you see any clues indicating anything but suicide?” Rose asked expertly. “We’ve got to be as certain as possible.” Of course all kinds of thoughts had crossed Dupin’s mind on the way there. There were perpetrators who tried to make murders look like suicides. But according to what they knew so far—
not much, admittedly—it could just as easily be a tragedy. The unbearable loss of his lover. Or else he had been caught up in the case in some way and it had all gotten out of hand. And although the timing would have been very tight, they couldn’t rule out him driving back to Lilou’s parents’ house during the night and killing his lover. Because she knew something she wasn’t meant to know. Anything was possible.

  “I’m assuming suicide for the moment,” the pathologist said, his brow furrowed. “If it wasn’t suicide, the perpetrator did an incredible job, he avoided any apparent mistakes. The deceased isn’t holding the gun in his hand; most perpetrators get that wrong. The position of the body”—he seemed to be trying to use his hands to emphasize everything he was explaining—“the way he’s lying there, that’s totally plausible. And the pattern of injuries is typical, just a single shot, the gun placed directly on bare skin. We call that a ‘contact shot,’ with a typical wound. The gunpowder residue beneath the skin on his hand is clearly visible, the vague outline of part of the muzzle imprint from the barrel can even be picked out above the entry wound. There are also traces of blood and fibers on the gun and on the deceased’s hand. A very coherent scene.”

  He took a step backward, his eyes fixed firmly on the dead man. Dupin was impressed by the short man with his firm, clear voice who, unusually for his profession, phrased things in a way that was easy to follow.

  “I’d suggest we take him away soon, and I’ll reconstruct the vital reactions in the lab so that we can see if he was still alive when the shot was fired. Apart from the gunshot wound, I haven’t found any other wounds or injuries yet.”

  “Fine, take him away,” Rose said offhandedly, looking lost in thought.

  “I don’t need to tell you this, of course, but nevertheless: we will never have absolute certainty. It could just be perfectly staged. But luckily that’s your job, not mine.” The pathologist’s face relaxed for the first time.

  The head of the three-person forensics team, a tall, smart-looking bald man (who was also surprisingly pleasant), joined them now.

  “So far we’ve not found any trace evidence on the boat from anyone but Maxime Daeron. Or anywhere else in the room, for that matter. Just some traces on the door, on the door handle. We were able to check them easily. They came from the housekeeper who found Daeron.”