Death in Pont-Aven Read online

  ‘What committee? The Prefect wanted to say how concerned he is about this terrible murder because there’s going to be such an outcry.’

  ‘Really? Oh.’

  ‘Doctor Pelliet said it was important. But he didn’t want to tell me anything else.’

  ‘I’m eating right now.’

  ‘Feel free.’

  Doctor Pelliet was Dupin’s grumpy GP in Concarneau. Dupin couldn’t imagine what he wanted. His last visit was months ago and they had discussed everything there was to discuss. There was something about his doctor wanting to speak to him urgently that he didn’t like.

  The sandwich was dreadful, it was dry and the baguette was overbaked, but he ate it anyway, even considered ordering a second as he really was awfully hungry. The coffee wasn’t any better than the last one either. Dupin’s mood was black. Even in the car this morning he hadn’t been under any illusions. The pressure to solve the case, or at the least to have something substantial to show for his work very soon would be huge. And the pressure would be coming from all sides. The murder of someone like Pierre-Louis Pennec would affect Bretons deeply, and on top of that the tourist season was almost here. Nobody wanted a murderer free to walk the streets right now. The most unpleasant thing would be the many ‘influential’ people, politicians, all the higher ups, who would think they could just share ‘suggestions’ with him in any number of ways. He was aware of all of this and he hated it. There would also be, he was well aware, daily calls from the Prefecture in Quimper.

  The phone rang again. Le Ber. Dupin knew he should answer it but he let it ring. It died away and started again a moment later. Nolwenn again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Doctor Pelliet just called again. He called personally, not his receptionist.’

  ‘Did he say what it was about this time?’

  ‘No, just that you should get in touch. He didn’t even ask you to call soon. But you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll call him.’

  Dupin got out his wallet, gloomily placed the money on the little plastic saucer and set off. It had been a stupid idea to come here. As if this would have been a proper restaurant! And what could he possibly have seen on the square in front of the hotel? What had he been thinking?

  Next on his agenda was the visit to Fragan Delon. He looked up the address and phone number in his notebook.

  Fragon Delon answered immediately; the phone had rung twice at most.

  ‘Yes?’

  He sounded perfectly calm.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Commissaire Dupin here. I’m investigating the murder of Pierre-Louis Pennec.’

  Dupin waited but Delon didn’t respond.

  ‘I would like to meet you. I’m sure you could help us. We have to build up a picture of Pierre-Louis Pennec, his personality, his life. As I understand it, you were his closest and oldest friend.’

  Delon didn’t react at all. Even after a long pause.

  ‘Are you still there, Monsieur Delon?’

  ‘When do you want to come over?’

  His voice didn’t sound at all unfriendly, not in the slightest. It was very quiet, very clear.

  ‘I could be there in a quarter of an hour. In twenty minutes.’

  He still had to call Le Ber back. Le Ber would definitely have a lot of things to discuss.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘See you soon then, Monsieur Delon.’

  Delon hung up even more quickly than Dupin did.

  Dupin had taken a little map of the city from reception. Delon lived on the western edge of Pont-Aven, a quarter of an hour’s walk according to Dupin’s best guess.

  Le Ber had a lot to report. And at the same time not very much at all. There had been five of them, Le Ber, Labat, the two police officers from Pont-Aven whom they’d already met (Monfort and Pennarguear) and one more police officer. They had questioned all the guests and employees for the first time, made lists, searched the hotel again. The usual routine. The scene of crime team and Lafond had finished their examinations, but their reports weren’t complete yet. On first inspection they hadn’t found anything remarkable.

  If he were honest, nothing relevant, not one thing of any relevance, had been discovered so far. Most significantly it seemed nobody had seen or heard anything last night. Nobody had seen anyone in the hotel who wasn’t meant to be there, nobody had seen anyone entering or leaving the restaurant after it closed. In all probability, the chef really had been the last person to see Pennec alive. Pennec had stayed in the restaurant and kitchen the whole evening, had had conversations here and there, had been at different tables, had spoken to the staff. Nobody had noticed anything unusual about him.

  Dupin was familiar with this kind of case. Everything had been ‘as per’ – right up until the murder had happened, of course. Nothing was out of the ordinary, apart from Pierre-Louis Pennec having a conversation with a stranger outside on the square in front of the hotel and that he maybe seemed a little worked up – ‘maybe’. That was the only remarkable thing, and it had been reported by three members of staff, although only Madame Lajoux had spoken of the conversation looking somewhat heated. But nobody could say who the stranger had been. Labat had taken on the task of tracing him. It was all they had at the moment.

  Dupin was almost at Delon’s house already. He reached for his phone again. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Dr Pelliet thing. What was so urgent that his GP would call out of the blue twice in quick succession?

  ‘Doctor Pelliet’s office, Mademoiselle Dantec speaking.’

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Dantec. It’s me, Georges Dupin. Doctor Pelliet –’

  ‘Yes, the doctor is trying to get hold of you. I’ll put you through.’

  Mademoiselle Dantec suited Dr Pelliet perfectly, they were an ideal match. No mincing of words, no shilly-shallying.

  ‘Monsieur Dupin?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘I’ve got to speak to you. In person.’

  ‘In person? You mean you want to meet up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think we could leave it until I… in the next few days I think I could –’

  ‘I think we should speak very soon.’

  ‘Do you mean today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m on a case you know and –’

  ‘So today then?’

  How was he going to manage this? But he knew he would say yes. Had to say yes. He never stood a chance where Dr Pelliet was concerned. He would manage it somehow, just before the surgery closed. Pelliet hadn’t been waiting for a response.

  ‘I’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘What do you mean? Now?’

  ‘Surely you’re still in Pont-Aven. It’ll take you half an hour.’

  Dupin tried again: ‘I’m really sorry, it’s just not possible. I’m on my way to an important meeting right now.’

  ‘It’s about the case.’

  Dupin fell silent.

  ‘The case? I mean… you mean the murder of Pierre-Louis Pennec?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dupin knew it didn’t make sense to ask anything more on the phone. He sighed gently.

  ‘I’m on my way, Docteur.’

  Dupin drove an old dark blue Citroën XM. It was big and difficult to manoeuvre. Dupin loved his car, although he didn’t nurse any great passion for cars generally. He was constantly making it clear that he had liked Citroëns before Nolwenn enlightened him that they were – indeed how could it be otherwise with items of such quality – Breton cars. They came from Rennes, as did Charles Vanel; Charles Vanel and of course lots more.

  It took him an awfully long time to get to Concarneau. In summer the tourists crawled along in their cars through the narrow streets between Concarneau and Pont-Aven, and they always cut through the pretty little village of Névez that he was so fond of. And since most foreigners either didn’t know the traffic rules for rond-points or didn’t know how to handle them in a confident French manner, there was oft
en some rather impressive gridlock on the road into Névez (as indeed there was at all the rond-points along on the way).

  As he drove along, Dupin puzzled over how Pelliet could be involved in the case. Nolwenn had recommended Dr Pelliet to him back when he had first arrived in Concarneau. Nolwenn’s children were already Pelliet’s patients. Since then Dupin had gone to him with everything, no matter what it was, and Pelliet always knew what to do.

  As he drove over a large bridge that looked like it was propped up on stilts, Dupin realised how happy he was to be back in Concarneau. The bridge ran between two hills high above the Moros, and ended on the outskirts of town. He took the first right onto rue Dumont d’Urville, drove past the market hall and turned right onto rue des Écoles. Dr Pelliet had his surgery in an old fisherman’s cottage, one of the many traditional, narrow houses that stood in two neat rows along the waterfront. He parked at the stunningly ugly new church, one of the few ugly buildings in Concarneau, and walked the last few metres.

  ‘How’s the stomach?’

  Dupin was confused for a moment. Pelliet’s receptionist had sent him straight into the examination room and Pelliet was sitting opposite him now in a big old armchair behind his desk. Dr Pelliet was perhaps in his early sixties, a native of Concarneau. Downstairs on the surgery sign it said ‘Dr Bernez Pelliet’, not Bernard. He was tall and thin, with a long face and a high forehead. The most striking thing about the impression he made was the utter calm that he radiated, he seemed like nothing could ever faze him.

  Dupin had been having recurrent stomach problems for years and they had been very bad several times a few months ago. Pelliet had listened for a few minutes and then said, ‘Nervous stomach. And too much caffeine. If you want I can examine you anyway.’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you.’ He found the stomach thing a bit embarrassing in this professional situation. ‘I mean, good. Better. Yes, quite a bit better.’ He knew he was not coming across as professionally as he might have hoped.

  Pelliet looked up from his papers and gazed at him somewhat sceptically. He spoke firmly: ‘Now then.’

  Dupin was relieved, Pelliet’s tone of voice having made it clear that the stomach topic had been dealt with. Pelliet still held his gaze. Dupin had fumbled for his pen as discreetly as possible. In vain. The notebook was already in his lap but the pen was missing.

  ‘He wouldn’t have had much longer to live.’

  These words came as a complete shock. Dupin thought he would continue, but Pelliet considered this enough to be going on with. Pelliet always spoke with the same clear, unemotional, yet not exactly cold voice, which perfectly suited his personality. It was clear who Pelliet meant, but Dupin’s question still slipped out:

  ‘Pennec?’

  Pelliet didn’t take any notice of it.

  ‘The heart. He would have needed multiple bypasses soon. Significant narrowing of the arteries. It’s a miracle he survived the last years, months and weeks at all. The chances were slim. Very slim indeed.’

  ‘You know about his heart? I mean, you’re his doctor too?’

  ‘I can barely call myself his doctor. He never let himself be examined, not even once in the last three decades. Nothing at all, not even the simplest check-up. He only came because he’s had back problems for many years; he used to get injections for it now and then. On Monday morning he came in with chest pain. The pain must have been bad, but he only agreed to an ECG under protest.’

  Pelliet paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He should have had an operation. On the spot. He didn’t want it.’

  ‘He didn’t want anything done to him?’

  ‘He said, “At my age, you’re done for once you start having operations.”’

  Pelliet’s face was inscrutable.

  ‘How much longer would he have had to live?’

  ‘As I said, medically speaking,’ Pelliet overpronounced every word, ‘he in fact should have died long ago.’

  ‘And what about medication? Was he given any tablets?’

  ‘He categorically refused them.’

  ‘And? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But he knew that it was going to kill him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pelliet paused and then said in a tone of voice that put a definitive end to this line of questioning:

  ‘A mentally sound man. And ninety-one years of age.’

  Dupin fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Did anyone know about his illness – about his situation? How serious it was?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he would have been comfortable with that. He never made much of a fuss. He even asked if my receptionist knew about it and was relieved to hear that she doesn’t really understand medical terminology.’

  Noticing Dupin’s astonishment, Pelliet added: ‘A very strong-willed man.’

  ‘So he wasn’t weak then? Wouldn’t someone have noticed his condition? In the last weeks at least?’

  Nobody had mentioned noticing any change or even frailty in Pennec.

  ‘That’s just the way it is, you know. A strong will. A proud man. And in any case he hadn’t been all that sprightly for a long time. Ninety-one.’

  Pelliet said this last word very slowly and looked Dupin calmly in the eye as he did so. He wouldn’t get anything more out of Dr Pelliet. Everything had already been said.

  ‘Thank you. This information is extremely important.’

  Dupin knew that the word ‘important’ was pushing it a bit here. And he wasn’t basing it on any solid fact. Right now he had no idea if it would be at all significant for the case. The only thing he knew for sure was that this information had made the case more complex.

  ‘Do you have any leads yet, a hypothesis?’

  Dupin was relieved by this unexpected question, it lessened the feeling he had had throughout the conversation, the feeling that he was sitting here as a patient. He made an effort to answer confidently, but he didn’t quite manage it.

  ‘We are investigating various leads.’

  ‘So nothing at all yet. Yes. It’s an awful case. A really awful case.’

  The doctor’s voice had changed for the first time; there was some true emotion in it now. He stood up and held out his hand to Dupin.

  ‘Thanks again, doctor.’ Dupin leapt up far too quickly, shook Dr Pelliet’s hand, turned around and left at a smart pace.

  Back out on the street again, Dupin tried to marshal his thoughts. He really had no idea where to begin with this bit of news, but it was serious. The victim of a brutal murder, a very old man, had had a life-threatening heart condition, and would in all likelihood have died a natural death any moment – literally any second. He had been well aware of this fact, but nobody else had even hinted that they had known about Pennec’s condition or noticed anything unusual about him. Could he possibly have kept his condition to himself, as Pelliet supposed? In that case they were random, coincidental facts, Pennec’s murder and Pennec’s terminal illness. But then again maybe that’s not how it was at all. But Pennec was certainly aware that his illness could catch up with him at any time – and that changed everything for him, it must have. Everything. Even for a ninety-one-year-old.

  Dupin could feel himself becoming anxious. He didn’t like this one bit. He dialled Labat’s number.

  ‘Labat – I want to know what Pierre-Louis Pennec did this week, every day since Monday. Everything we can find out. What did he do, who did he see, speak to, call? Question everyone one more time about those four days, and let Le Ber know. We’re concentrating on those four days. From Monday morning till last night.’

  ‘Just those four days? Why?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no. Not just those four days of course. But mainly that period. To begin with.’

  ‘And how come? Why mainly those four days, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘A feeling, Labat. A feeling.’

  ‘We’re concentrating all of our police resources on a feeling?
I still have a few urgent things to do, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Later, Labat. I’m going to see Fragan Delon now.’

  Dupin hung up.

  Nolwenn had called Fragan Delon and postponed Dupin’s visit until five o’clock. It was now half past four. He would quickly buy a few pens at the Tabac-Presse around the corner that he always went to. He usually bought the same cheap black bic biros because he was forever losing them faster than he could buy them again. He needed a few notebooks too – Dupin had used the same notebooks since his training days, Clairefontaine ones, a bit narrower than A5, unlined, bright red; he spotted them amongst everything else at a glance. He had had hopelessly bad handwriting ever since his schooldays. He also wrote words in completely different sizes – the used pages looked chaotic to the uninitiated. He went over his notes again and again during a case. If he were honest, he couldn’t explain the strict criteria he had for what he wrote down and what he didn’t. Simply put, the principle was this: whatever he thought was important at a given moment, no matter what the reason, he wrote it down. There were keywords, sketches, charts and sometimes they ran riot across the page. He needed to do it because his memory worked, to his great annoyance, only haphazardly. It retained things he didn’t need or want to know any more, the smallest, most obscure details; other things however, that he absolutely wanted and needed to remember, vanished.

  It was busy in the Tabac-Presse on Pénéroff Quay, the biggest square in the town. In fact the whole village had been busy over the last few days. Concarneau was getting ready for the highlight of the year, the festival to end all festivals, the Festival des Filets Bleus.

  Dupin loved this shop; like all good Tabac-Presse shops, it was full to bursting; every corner, every centimetre, was taken up with newspapers, magazines, books, notebooks, stationery, sweets, plastic nick-nacks and all sorts of junk.