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À L.

And in memory of my friend Uwe Rosenfeld,

who was a Breton at heart.

Neb a fell dezhañ ober fall,

A gav un digarez pe un all.

Those who want to do ill,
will always find an excuse

—BRETON SAYING

The First Day

Commissaire Georges Dupin had made a new friend.

When they met for the first time, Dupin had swum out a long way from the shore, just like today. The commissaire enjoyed being so completely alone out in the ocean. There was this distinctive atmosphere, a wonderfully muted calm. Above all, he liked the wild perspective: with his eyes just barely above the water, the sky and ocean seemed endless. Endlessly wide. And endlessly blue; the blues above and below differing only in their shades. Today, the band of sky was a touch lighter, but sometimes it was the other way around. The sky and ocean in Brittany played this game unceasingly: seducing the shades of blue away from one another as though they were in competition. And there were also days when both took on exactly the same shade, making the horizon vanish, days when they harmoniously dissolved into each other, making the onlooker feel dizzy. Then, nothing could be seen but one single sky-ocean. And it was impossible to say where one stopped and the other began.

Two weeks ago, while Dupin was swimming, something gray had appeared before him. A snout at first, a sizable one, with distinct fur, and long white whiskers on both sides. It had tilted very gradually until two shining, dark eyes and a sharply tapered head came into view.

A seal.

An Atlantic gray seal, to be precise, un phoque gris, as Riwal and Nolwenn—his first inspector and “assistant,” who was considerably more than an assistant—had later explained. To say that Dupin felt afraid during this first encounter would be an exaggeration. But he did feel awe. He was a little uneasy at first, naturally. These were impressive mammals, after all, bulky and yet incredibly nimble, acrobats of the ocean, pretty to look at, yes, cute when they were pups, but when it came down to it, they were predators. And there was another thing to be taken into consideration: it was possible a kind of rabies existed in the ocean too, and this particular specimen showed no sign of shyness, which, as was common knowledge, seemed suspicious for a wild animal.

For a while Dupin had stayed as still as possible, keeping the seal in his gaze and himself afloat with the gentlest of movements. Luckily the ocean had been calm, like a bedsheet pulled taut, without even the hint of a wave. It had been like that for quite a while, ever since the big heat wave, la canicule, had descended on Western Europe and, unusually, Brittany too; a region that tended to be spared heat waves. Ce n’est pas normal—the widespread indignation could be heard everywhere, in the supermarket, at the hairdresser, the bakery, the wine shop, in the café, during chance encounters on the street. In Rennes, a worrying record temperature of 40.1 degrees had been measured; in Concarneau it was still 34.7 degrees. Everyone agreed there hadn’t been anything like it in living memory.

The seal had been swimming in an upright position, so it was like they were standing opposite each other in the glassily clear water. It had an inquisitive expression; startled, perhaps, as though it was wondering who this was swimming around in its element. They stared at each other. Then Dupin had decided it would be best if he swam back to shore: calmly, without any sudden movements. Accompanied by the seal, as he had soon realized. Keeping a polite distance, it had followed him to the beach. Dupin had felt deeply moved, and stood at the shoreline for a long while afterward.

That was the Thursday before last. Since then, the seal had been waiting for him every morning. Dupin always came down to the beach near his house to swim at eight o’clock; a strict summer prework ritual. The seal was always there to accompany him out to sea. Rollicking around, it swam on its stomach, on its back, diving under and around him, darting every which way through the water without ever straying too far. Once Dupin left the ocean and the beach, it stared after him for a while before eventually disappearing underwater, to pursue other tasks until the following day. Now and then, as they swam together, the seal made a shrill clicking sound, and on their daily parting of ways, a kind of tuneful whistle, which, though Dupin hadn’t quite grasped its significance, could turn into a deep roar.

Today too, August 7, a Wednesday, the seal had been waiting for Dupin. It patiently swam along next to him. Dupin was amazed by its tolerance; to the seal, he must be moving at the speed of a sea snail. For some reason, perhaps a different current, the Atlantic had cooled overnight. That happened sometimes, even in a heat wave, and right now it was incredibly welcome. At twenty-three degrees, the Atlantic in the Baie de Concarneau had been unusually warm for a while. Dupin was just heading back to shore when he spotted a wildly gesticulating figure on the beach. It took him a few moments to make out who it was. Riwal.

“Boss! Boss!”

Dupin glanced at his watch. It was twenty past eight. What was the problem? They had arranged to meet at a quarter to nine. And it wasn’t far to the station. He could even have enjoyed a quick petit café in the Amiral en route. Nolwenn and Riwal wanted to speak “urgently and definitively” about the “big party”: the celebration of Dupin’s ten-year work anniversary. It was two days away, on Friday evening. For once, the festivities wouldn’t take place at the Amiral; after weeks of deliberation, they had decided on Ty Mad in Douarnenez.

Had Nolwenn sent the inspector to make sure he was really coming? “We unfortunately don’t have much time,” she had said yesterday, admonishingly, because Dupin had a meeting with the fire department chief at half past eleven. Dupin wasn’t keen on all the fuss, but the discussions had lasted for weeks, and eventually he’d reluctantly agreed to the party. He didn’t have the faintest clue what they needed to spend so much time discussing today. Nolwenn always went way, way over the top.

On the shore, Riwal was waving with ever-greater desperation. Even the seal had noticed. It had paused and seemed to be staring toward the beach with a markedly skeptical expression.

“Boss! Boss, there’s a body!”

For a moment, Dupin wasn’t sure he had heard right.

“What?”

“A body! Boss, there’s a body!”

The words echoed through the entire bay. There was no doubt.

A body!

Luckily, the beach was still quiet at this time of day. Only Dupin’s neighbor, old Madame Claudel, was out walking along the promenade with a baguette tucked under her arm. Naturally, and he wouldn’t expect anything different, she had paused and was watching the scene with curiosity.

“I’m coming, Riwal.”

Dupin began to swim as quickly as he could, going into the front crawl. The seal had noticed something unusual was happening; it glanced around in alarm and then considerately escorted Dupin to the beach.

“Where? Who is it?”

Dupin began to run while he was still in the water. He dashed toward the inspector.

“A male, in the sea. In the harbor at Doëlan. We don’t know who he is yet. A fisherman found him.”

“And he doesn’t know him?”

“No.”

Without slowing down, Dupin had run past Riwal, heading to his clothes, which lay farther up the beach. Riwal followed.

“Any signs of foul play?”

“Not yet.”

“If the fisherman doesn’t know him, then he’s not from there.”

Doëlan was a tiny village belonging to the small community of Clohars-Carnoët.

The commissaire had arrived by his things—a hand towel, jeans, polo shirt, and shoes.

“Probably not, no.”

“Has anyone been reported missing in the area?”

“No. Two gendarmes from Quimperlé are already en route, and should arrive in Doëlan shortly. The coroner’s on his way too.”

“Good.”

There was no time to dry himself off. Or to remove his swimming trunks. He had no choice but to pull his jeans on over them.

“We’ll take my car!”

Dupin raced off.

“Sea fog, boss, brume de mer.”

After ten years in Brittany, Dupin was familiar with the phenomenon, but it still felt spectacular and new every time he saw it. The fog had appeared as though out of nowhere. During the journey over, the Brittany sky had displayed its immaculate Atlantic blue. Only once they’d driven down to the harbor had the fog appeared: a peculiar, bright-white veil of mist hovering directly above the ocean. Dupin estimated visibility at roughly ten meters, and beyond that, all you could see were silhouettes and contours, of rowboats, sailboats, cliffs, buoys. Then everything became lost in a swirling nothingness. The boundary was sharply drawn: where the ocean ended, the fog ended too. Like an invisible wall that lay only over the sea. It was ghostly.

Kadeg, Dupin’s second inspector, had arrived a few minutes ago, together with Le Menn and Nevou—the two policewomen Nolwenn had secured the year before last in a long overdue expansion of their team. They had taken a rowboat out to the body, which was still in the water. In the midst of the sea fog. They were now nowhere to be seen.

“Marine stratus, boss.” Riwal and Dupin were also in a rowboat, an adventurously tiny one in Dupin’s opinion, painted white and blue and equipped with two simple rudders.

“Strictly speaking it’s not actually fog, but clouds. They form over the ocean when the heated air masses from inland reach the coast and cool swiftly.”

It was a completely inappropriate moment for discussing meteorological mysteries. Besides, Dupin didn’t care what it was precisely that was making it impossible to see.

Riwal immediately returned to the topic at hand: “One of the officers is looking at the cars in the harbor and checking whether any of them belong to people who aren’t from here. And the harbormaster is checking the boat.”

“He’s got to be from somewhere,” muttered Dupin.

“We need to be careful here, boss, the tide has reached its lowest point. We’re facing considerable tidal coefficient, there’s significantly less water than usual. With sharp cliffs to the right and left of the navigational route.”

The pitiful boat was rocking and swaying considerably, even though there were no waves, far and wide.

“And the last masses of water running from the ria are causing incredibly strong currents,” added Riwal. “Which doesn’t make maneuvering any easier.”

Dupin hated boat trips as much as he loved swimming. Regardless of the type of boat. Riwal was rowing starboard; Dupin port side. The inspector straightened up every few moments to keep watch for the others, which only made the boat rock even more.

“Over here! Here!”

Kadeg’s military-like, snappish manner. One of his unpleasant characteristics, of which there were quite a few and which unfortunately immediately stood out. His more likable side, by contrast, took a while to discover; it had taken Dupin years.

Presumably because of the sea fog, Kadeg sounded like he was simultaneously very close and very far away. As hard as he tried, Dupin couldn’t have said where his inspector was.

“Okay,” confirmed Riwal.

They had, as they discovered, rowed out a little too far, so Dupin made a few powerful strokes alone and the boat turned. The silhouette of the quay wall, which stretched out from the shore into the ocean, loomed out of the fog, colossal and ghostly.

“Just a bit farther, over here!”

Nevou’s powerful, deep voice guided them. All of a sudden, they spotted their colleagues’ boat. Alongside Kadeg and Nevou, Dupin could make out Le Menn’s tall silhouette and her ponytail, and one of the officers from Quimperlé. Kadeg and Le Menn were kneeling in the bow, leaning far over the narrow railing of the boat, with Nevou and the gendarme holding them by the legs. It was a bizarre sight.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Commissaire.” The shy voice belonged to the gendarme.

“You presumably also have no idea who the dead man could be?” Dupin’s tone was gruff, even though that hadn’t been his intention.

“I’ve never seen him around here before.” The gendarme now sounded even more intimidated. “He could be a tourist, there are so many now that it’s high season.”

That was typical for early August. Most French people traveled in the month after the national holiday on July 14. And in addition, there were tourists from other countries.

Riwal and Dupin were now two or three meters away from their colleagues’ boat, and the scene was gradually taking shape. There was a line stretched between two large white buoys, and further lines were attached onto that, for mooring boats. The body had become entangled in them and was pressed up against one of the buoys by the current. Kadeg and Le Menn were trying to free the body.

“We’re almost there,” panted Le Menn, her long ponytail dangling in the water, “just a moment.”

Dupin fixed his gaze on the body.

With a few powerful, deft strokes, Riwal had steered their boat to the other side of the buoy, and it was now directly by the body. The commissaire had knelt down in the rowboat, not even noticing the violent rocking he’d triggered.

The dead man was lean in build. Not particularly large, nor particularly small. He was floating on his back. The current kept pulling his head underwater, then it would suddenly emerge again; a macabre sight. The entire body was in constant motion. But the eyes were the most unsettling thing: narrow, rigid slits, through which the wet, glassy pupils seemed to be staring. The eyelids were swollen. The man was probably around sixty years old, with short hair, and a rugged face with an unnaturally ruddy hue.

“He clearly hasn’t been underwater long,” Le Mann stated calmly, still grappling with the lines.

“A few hours at most,” confirmed Kadeg in a grave tone.

The man was wearing black cloth pants and a green short-sleeved shirt. The current had exposed half of his stomach.

“Where’s Docteur Lafond?” Dupin was just about to sit back down when he suddenly froze.

“He just called,” Le Menn informed them. “He’s coming down to the harbor now. He—”

“Riwal,” Dupin interrupted her, still kneeling, “could you bring us a bit closer?”

The commissaire was leaning far over the edge, making the boat tilt.

“What is it, boss? What have you spotted?”

“Closer, Riwal!”

The inspector did his best. It was impressive how, now standing, he had control of the rowboat with just one oar. Dupin was almost close enough to touch the dead man’s body, when the boat suddenly turned.

“Shit!” exclaimed Dupin.

“The current, boss. It’s impossible.”

It seemed futile to repeat the maneuver.

“Monsieur le Commissaire, could you tell us what you’re trying to do?” asked Kadeg in a peeved tone. He was now gripping the dead man’s right leg.

“I…”

Dupin broke off. He clambered past Riwal to the bow, laid down his gun—and even more importantly: his sacred notebook—warned the inspector with a brief “Watch out!” and jumped overboard. He submerged for a moment, then began to swim toward the buoy with powerful strokes.

“You okay, boss?” Riwal knew further questions were futile once Dupin had got something in his head.

“Yep.”

Dupin had spotted something around the dead man’s neck. Or at least, he thought he had. The commissaire held on to the line between the two large buoys, now directly by the body, reached for the collar of the man’s shirt, and pulled it aside. There was no doubt; Dupin hadn’t been mistaken. There were clear injuries around the neck. Very specific ones. Signs of strangulation. The man at the buoy had been murdered.

They had brought the corpse to the front of the harbor office. Now it lay on the asphalt in the middle of the parking lot, which had been fully cordoned off. The fog over the sea seemed to be growing even more dense, but still kept strictly to the puzzling border: toward inland, the sky was clear and blue, including over the parking lot.

The dead man lay in the bright sunlight. Even though it was only just past nine, it was already strong and didn’t feel like morning sunshine. The coroner, Docteur Lafond, had arrived with two colleagues and taken an initial look at the body. The forensics team were on site too, meticulously searching the harbor.

Despite his notorious aversion to making hasty statements, Lafond had gone so far as to say the man had “clearly been strangled, with a rope or cloth, and probably just one to three hours ago. More like three hours. That would be around six o’clock this morning. No longer than that.” Tonelessly, Lafond had added: “A brutal way to go.” This was gruesomely evidenced by the wounds, bruising, welts, and, in particular, the hematoma on the neck, which without the cooling effect of the Atlantic were now looking increasingly horrific. The man had—and Lafond was certain about this too—already been dead when he had fallen, or been thrown, into the ocean. This established the basics; they could work with this.

Dupin, Le Menn, and Riwal had spoken briefly with the fisherman who had discovered the body while sailing back into the harbor. He had headed out shortly before midnight, just like two other coastal fishermen who were still out at sea. They had shown the fisherman the body one more time, but even now, on closer inspection, the man hadn’t recognized him.

“The murderer was really unlucky,” murmured Le Menn.

Riwal and Dupin looked at her questioningly. “If the body hadn’t gotten caught in the lines on the buoy, it would never have been found,” she clarified. “It would have been carried farther out to sea, and disappeared once and for all.”

That was true.

“And it would have been presumed to be an accident. The case would have ended up with the hundreds of missing person files.”

It happened again and again. People got lost at sea. For reasons that remained forever unknown and in circumstances that were never ascertained. They simply disappeared. The sea swallowed them. That’s how they referred to it here—it was part of Breton life.

“Le Menn’s right,” confirmed Riwal. “Just pure chance. It was extremely unlikely the body would ever be discovered.”

“Someone must know him.”

Kadeg, Nevou, and the two gendarmes were already going door-to-door in the small village with a photo of the man.

“I’ll take him along with me to Quimper now.” Docteur Lafond, who was standing next to the corpse, wiped the sweat from his brow.

“No objections from me.” Dupin shrugged. He was still dripping wet.

A man was strolling toward them, with both hands in his pants pockets, wearing a washed-out gray T-shirt covered with dark stains; clearly work clothing. He had large, protruding ears, and was perhaps in his midforties.

“Can we help you, monsieur?” Dupin asked.

“I’m the harbormaster,” the man declared, by way of greeting. He walked past Dupin, his gaze resting on the drenched commissaire for just a moment, and headed toward the body.

“An inspector told me to take a look at him.”

He came to a halt right in front of the corpse.

“Ah. Just as I thought. Provost. Patric Provost. A Bellilois.”

A sober declaration, with no trace of emotion. His hands still rested in his pants pockets.

“You know him?” Dupin went to stand next to him.

“He comes here once a year. From August sixth to seventh. Only then. For Old Provost’s birthday. That’s his uncle, Jean Provost. The whole family’s from Belle-Île.”

“Are you certain it’s him, monsieur?”

A hint of a nod.

“And he’s from Belle-Île?”

Again, a mere nod.

Dupin’s gaze moved to Riwal: “Does the name Provost mean anything to you?”

Riwal, too, was practically a Bellilois. His sister, who had moved a few years ago to the East Coast of America with her husband, a native-born Bellilois, had a house on the island, which had since become Riwal’s weekend and holiday home. “Absolute paradise,” he called it. It was about one and a half hours from Concarneau to the ferry in Quiberon, then three-quarters of an hour for the crossing. Riwal was in love with Belle-Île, the most famous and biggest of the Breton islands. A legend.

“Not much. One of the island’s long-established families, I think.” The inspector shook his head.

Dupin waited. But that was it. Even Riwal himself looked disappointed. He rubbed his temples and seemed to be thinking intently.

Dupin turned back to the harbormaster. “Does he have any other relatives? Is he married?”

“No idea. Old Provost doesn’t have a wife, in any case. He lives alone.”

“How did Patric Provost get to Doëlan, monsieur?” Le Menn picked up the questioning.

“With his boat, like always. It’s over there, at the beginning of the ria.” He pointed inland.

Here, near Doëlan, the ria extended at least a kilometer inland. A deeply Breton landscape: a valley flooded thousands of years ago through the rise in sea level, a sunken riverbed that had become a meandering, narrow estuary, like a fjord. In the north of Brittany, they were called abers. To the right and left of the bay were low hills dotted with quaint old fishermen’s houses; part of the village ran below along the ria, another part lay on the slope between. The estuary wasn’t visible right now: it too was concealed by the dense fog.

“Provost got in last night around six,” the harbormaster continued. “And he was planning to go back again this morning. He owns a large sheep farm. A stubborn old skinflint, he hates people.”

A bizarre mix of information.

“Oh yes, sheep!” cried Riwal suddenly. “Of course! That’s how I know the name Provost.”

Dupin had begun to make notes.

“There’s a famous, really special breed of sheep on the island, boss,” the encyclopedic machine was revving up now, “it has the same name. As the island, I mean. Belle-Île sheep. It’s a crazy story, boss. People thought they were extinct, but then a vet who was vacationing on the island discovered there were still a dozen of them there and—”

“Where in Doëlan does Provost’s uncle live?” Le Menn interrupted, beating Dupin to it.

“Impasse des Pêcheurs. Not far.”

In Doëlan, nothing was far.

“Did you speak with Patric Provost when he arrived?”

“‘Speak’ would be an exaggeration. He was the uncommunicative type. Unlikable.”

Compassion or pity clearly weren’t the harbormaster’s strengths. And yet he didn’t mean it in a bad way; Dupin knew people like this.

“Did you notice anything unusual about him yesterday evening?”

Le Menn was renowned for her interrogation tempo.

“No, he was just the same as always.”

“How late did you work here in the harbor yesterday evening, monsieur?”

“Very late. Until half past ten. I had lots to do.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“No.”

“How many boats from outside the region were moored here overnight?”

In summer, the harbors along the coast functioned as camping sites for boat vacationers.

“Twelve, when I left. But someone else may have come in afterward.”

“You have a list, I presume.”

“All registered.”

“First things first.” Dupin was feeling impatient. “Let’s talk to the uncle.”

He turned toward the road that led to the village’s main square, which he knew well.

“Le Menn, you come with me. Riwal, call Kadeg and Nevou, and search Provost’s boat. Le Menn and I will join you after.”

Dupin pulled out his cell phone. The most important call hadn’t yet been made; he hadn’t spoken with Nolwenn. Riwal had brought her up to date after the retrieval of the body. But that was all she knew. He pressed the speed dial.

“Ah, Monsieur le Commissaire. Any news?”

“We know the dead man’s identity. And that he came from Belle-Île. And—that it was murder.”

Dupin summarized succinctly what they had just discovered.

“From Belle-Île? Hm. Riwal’s realm.”

“Unfortunately he doesn’t know anything about Patric Provost. Does the name mean something to you?”

“It doesn’t, no. But that’s about to change.”

Dupin could hear her typing already.

“And … there we go. Patric Provost. Moutons Bretons, that’s the name of his company, a bit unoriginal, but fine. Just a moment…”

Le Menn had overtaken Dupin and was hurrying up the road toward the square. She too had her cell phone to her ear.

“I’m on his website now…” A pause. “A very basic site … The famous Belle-Île sheep. A very handsome breed … He’s the vice president of Denved ar Vro, I see.”

Nolwenn’s emphasis implied Dupin should know all about it.

“An organization that looks after the stock and marketing of this particular breed. Its lamb meat is renowned to be the absolute best. Extremely sought-after. Agneau de pré salé. Like the one from Mont Saint-Michel. Except the label on the Belle-Île is different: agneau du large.”

“Understood.”

There really was nothing better; it was a sublime delicacy. The sheep grazed on salty, iodine-rich meadows, full of wild herbs, directly by the ocean. “They season themselves while they’re eating,” as a Breton had once told him. In Dupin’s culinary ranking, this lamb came right behind entrecôte. And that was saying something.

“See what else you can find out about the man, Nolwenn. We’re going to speak to the uncle first.”

“Just so it’s clear, Monsieur le Commissaire”—Nolwenn’s tone suddenly took on a menacingly serious, almost dramatic timbre—“you have to solve this case by Friday afternoon. We’ve got the party! Come hell or high water! And next Monday you’ve got your exam. You’re not missing that either, under any circumstances! I’m assuming you have your booklet with you at all times. Right, off you go! Ken emberr.”

Before Dupin could come back with even one word of reply, she had hung up.

Breton for Beginners, the course with a concluding exam and diploma, was his “present” from his colleagues at the station for his work anniversary. It was quite clear whose idea it had been. For the past ten years, Riwal and Nolwenn had urged the commissaire to learn Breton, partly for professional reasons: without a knowledge of the ancient Celtic language, they claimed, it was impossible to solve even present-day Breton criminal cases. Around two hundred and fifty thousand people still conversed in it, and this in Bretagne bretonnante, western Brittany, alone. He had spent a total of fifteen Monday nights in the stuffy seminar room at the espace culturel above the old Concarneau market halls. But at least his seven classmates had been great people. Dupin had even befriended a retired fireman who was just about to remarry, to a Breton “pur beurre” who was insisting on a traditional Breton wedding ceremony. A compact miniature booklet had formed part of the course, titled Le Breton en 5 Minutes Par Jour. It was organized into topics that described the happy Breton existence: “Celebrating with Friends,” “Eating” (a comprehensive chapter), “Drinking” (an even more comprehensive chapter), “Giving Your Opinion,” “Discussing the Weather,” “Agreeing and Disagreeing” (the original Breton virtue; of revolt). Ever since, Nolwenn and Riwal had been scattering Breton sayings into their conversations more than ever. Ken emberr—“see you soon.”

“It’s a lovely idea,” Claire had commented, and she had actually turned out to be right. Dupin had concentrated first on the sentences that were essential for survival: Kafé am bo, mar plij, “a coffee, please,” and Gwelloc’h eo ganin ur banne gwin, “I’ll have a glass of wine.” The two sentences that allowed a person to claim elementary mastery of a language.

By now they had reached the village square.

“Along here,” instructed Le Menn, who clearly knew exactly where they were headed. “House number five. Over there on the left.”

Dupin’s cell phone rang.

Claire.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay, Georges?”

Her question held a deep unease.

“Yes. Why?”

“Madame Claudel just called. She said something about a dead body in Concarneau. On our beach. That you’d pulled it out of the sea. She was beside herself and says it’s murder. Now she’s locked herself inside her house, convinced the perpetrator is still on the loose.”

Dupin sighed. His neighbor had clearly misunderstood. He told Claire what had really happened. That it was, in fact, murder. But not on the beach in Concarneau.

“Okay, Georges. I’ve got an urgent surgery now.”

She hung up.

Dupin shook his head.

Two minutes later, he and Le Menn were ringing the doorbell of an old reed-thatched stone house surrounded by opulent hydrangeas: lilac, pink, blue, red. It briefly occurred to Dupin that, given he was still wet through, he probably made a strange sight. But that didn’t matter. In truth, he never looked like a “proper” commissaire.

It took a while before there was any discernible movement in the house. Strange sounds made their way outside.

The door opened very slowly. Before them stood a small, hunched man, who Dupin estimated to be in his mid or late eighties, propping himself shakily on a walker.

“Yes?”

A clear, strong voice, with no trace of his obvious fragility. But not a friendly one.

“Monsieur Provost? Jean Provost?”

Dupin wanted to be sure.

“Who else would you expect to be here, monsieur?” His left hand slipped from the grip of the walking frame, and for a brief moment Dupin feared Provost might fall, but the man regained his balance. “What do you want?”

This much was clear: they could rule out Jean Provost as a suspect.

“Commissariat de Police Concarneau, may we come in?”

This wasn’t the kind of news to be imparted on the doorstep.

“Why?”

“It’s a serious matter, monsieur.” Dupin’s tone emphasized his words. And it had the desired effect.

“Fine.”

Provost laboriously turned himself and the walker and moved silently and slowly through the bare hallway into a dimly lit room that seemed to be the living room. Battered wooden floorboards. It smelled of soft soap, citrusy; Dupin knew the aroma. Someone had been here to clean not too long ago. The old man steered toward a narrow sofa, next to which stood a single armchair, upholstered in the same threadbare fabric. Provost came to a halt and turned toward them. He made no sign of sitting down, nor of offering them a seat.

“So?”

He didn’t sound any friendlier.

“Perhaps it’s better you sit down?” asked Le Menn with a concerned expression.

“We have sad news, monsieur.” All of a sudden, the words and their awful content seemed completely surreal to Dupin. “Your nephew, Patric Provost, is dead. He was the victim of a suspected murder here in the harbor.” He paused for a moment. “Please accept our deepest sympathies, monsieur.”

The commissaire’s gaze was trained firmly on the old man’s face.

At first, it seemed as though Jean Provost hadn’t even heard. Or not understood. No reaction could be detected on his features. Unmoving, he stared at the commissaire.

“Monsieur Provost, are you feeling all right?” Le Menn was uneasy.

Still no reaction.

Dupin had experienced many conversations of this nature throughout his career, and yet it was awful each time. He had witnessed an immense variety of reactions.

“Monsieur Provost, we’ll do everything we can to solve this as swiftly as possible and capture the perpetrator. It’s possible you might be able to help us with that.”

Jean Provost’s eyes had widened.

“How did he die?” His voice was unchanged. Firm and clear.

“He was strangled and then thrown into the sea. His body got caught in the lines of a buoy. Not far from the quay wall. A fisherman found him.”

It was gruesome, but it was the truth. And those left behind had to know the truth, always. Otherwise, the images that arose in the imagination could be even worse than the reality.

Again, the old man remained silent. By now Dupin’s eyes had adapted to the dim light.

“We heard that your nephew was with you yesterday evening. For your birthday.”

Dupin spoke in a gentle tone.

Jean Provost pushed the walker aside, then took a few small, careful steps to the sofa and sat down. “Yes.” His gaze wandered over to the window, staring into nothingness.

“Did you both spend the evening here, monsieur?” Le Menn asked.

“We always go to a restaurant. He picked me up here. It’s not far.”

“Which restaurant?” Le Menn inquired. “Les Trois Mâts?”

They had just walked past it; the restaurant was on the small square. Dupin knew it. An institution. The old man moved his head in agreement. It was hard to imagine how he’d made it across there. And back.

“How long were you in the restaurant?”

“Until nine thirty. Then Patric brought me home and left. He always spends the night on his boat.”

“Did Patric know anyone besides you here in Doëlan or in the surrounding area?”

“No. Not that I knew of. He lives on his island, and rarely leaves it.”

His voice had now lost its strength.

“You don’t know of anyone he could have been meeting here?”

Le Menn’s questioning was persistent.

“No.”

“Did he tell you about anything that could be connected with the crime?”

“What do you mean?”

“An argument, a conflict, some kind of squabble?”

“He talked about his sheep. His stock. A bit about Bonaparte. We never talk much.”

“Bonaparte?”

“He…” A pause. “He admires Napoleon. And knows a lot about him. It’s a quirk.”

“So he didn’t mention any disagreement?”

A decisive shake of the head.

“What else did you talk about?”

“The heat. That it’s bad for the sheep.”

“Anything else?”

Jean Provost looked at the young policewoman helplessly.

“Did you notice anything unusual about him? Was he nervous, worried, preoccupied, distracted?”

The confusion in his gaze increased.

“Not at all.”

“Did he tell you when he was planning to head back this morning?”

“No. But he always goes very early.”

“Does he have family on Belle-Île? Are there any dependents?”

Dupin would have to inform them as quickly as possible, which meant visiting them in person. Before the news reached them through other means.

“He was alone.”

“I see. Siblings? Are his parents still alive?”

“No.”

“So, there’s no one. Family-wise, I mean. No one apart from you.”

It was a sad statement.

“Only me.”

Jean Provost’s gaze was empty.

“And friends? Do you know of any friends?” Le Menn continued.

Headshaking.

“Other social contacts?”

“No.”

“And you?”

Dupin’s inquiry was too vague.

“I mean—you live alone?”

It was obvious, really.

Jean Provost nodded weakly.

“Is there anything we can do for you, monsieur?”

The old man looked at the commissaire in confusion.

“The news must be an incredible shock for you. Is there a doctor we can call?” Le Menn came to Dupin’s aid.

“I don’t need anything.”

“Who looks after you?”

“Elise. My support nurse. She’s coming at eleven.”

That wasn’t too long from now.

“What do you know about your nephew’s life on Belle-Île, monsieur?” Dupin returned to the questioning.

“Not much. His livestock is his life. And he also owns a lot of land. And houses.”

“Where did he get the funds for that?”

“We’re Acadians. The whole family. Patric’s father was the oldest. He inherited everything. Then, after his death, it went to Patric.”

“Acadians?”

Dupin had never heard of them.

“The island’s long-established families.”

“But your part of the family left the island?”

“My parents did. Before I was born. My brother, Patric’s father, went back.”

“What do you know about Patric’s business?”

“It’s going well, from what I know.”

“Is he in the real estate business too?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where does he live on the island?” Le Menn took over again.

“In a remote hamlet.”

“Does he have a house there?”

“Yes.”

Dupin was getting restless. They wouldn’t find out any more from Jean Provost for now. And they needed to make a move; Riwal and the others were waiting for them on the boat.

“Just one last question, monsieur. Do you know what will happen to your nephew’s estate? The sheep, the land, the properties?”

“No idea.”

“Did he never talk to you about a will? Or about whether anything would go to you in the event of his death?”

“No, he would never have done that. Talked about his will, I mean.”

“Okay.”

Dupin would ask one of the gendarmes from Quimperlé to drop in on Provost again later.

“Thank you for your help, monsieur. If you think of anything else that could be of interest to us, get in touch at any time. I’ll leave a card here for you.”

Le Menn laid it on the small side table next to the sofa.

“Au revoir, monsieur,” said Dupin, in a warmhearted tone.

The strangely uniform fog, glaringly lit by the sunshine, lay like a demonic white snake in the narrow valley of the ria. It looked even more eerie than above the open sea. Its contours weren’t as sharply drawn as by the coast, but here too it kept mainly to the flow of the water. And it swallowed everything it found: the multitude of motorboats, sailboats, Zodiacs, and small, colorful plastic dinghies fastened to deserted buoys, all of which, in summer, lay scattered across the bay like decorations.

Le Menn had returned to the harbor office to hold the fort. One of the gendarmes from Quimperlé had accompanied Dupin to Kadeg, who had awaited them opposite the Quai de Kernabat with an absurdly small neon-green dinghy. It was, as short as the stretches may have been, already the second boat trip in this investigation. Not a good sign. From the shore, they hadn’t been able to make out Patric Provost’s boat, not even its contours, for the fog seemed even more impenetrable here. Nor could they hear any voices, neither Riwal’s nor Nevou’s.

On the way over to Kadeg, Dupin had spoken with Nolwenn on the phone a second time. She had tracked down Provost’s exact place of residence, Islonk, a tiny hamlet consisting of seven houses in the southwest of the island, and had even identified his neighbors. She was sending Dupin a list. Besides that, there wasn’t much to be found on Patric Provost. No entries on the police register and just a few short newspaper articles about his sheep breed. Apparently, it was the largest of the island, with a branch on the mainland near Carnac, and another one on Hoëdic—one of the two little islands to the east of Belle-Île. But the articles contained nothing about Provost himself. Self-promotion didn’t seem to have been his thing. In addition, Nolwenn had already spoken briefly with the gendarmerie in Le Palais, the island’s small capital: the Brigade Territoriale Autonome de Gendarmerie de Palais. And with the chief commander himself. He needed to be kept informed—and even more importantly: with his help, they would be able to uncover more information about Provost.

The press—represented by old Donal and the stick-thin Drollec, the star editors from Le Télégramme and Ouest-France, with whom Dupin, in principle, was on good footing—had found out about the discovery of the body, and were apparently already in the harbor. They didn’t yet know it was a murder case, but it was only a matter of time. The news couldn’t be kept under wraps for long. Of course, the two reporters would speak with the harbormaster, or he with them, and they would then request police confirmation. And they had no option but to give it. After all, this was a murder case. As unfitting as it was for idyllic Doëlan and the glorious summer, let alone high tourist season.

“Salut, boss.”

Riwal’s voice came out of nowhere.

Dupin turned abruptly. He had to orient himself; they had only advanced a few meters into the thick swathes of fog. Kadeg made a few powerful strokes with the oar. Then, all at once, Dupin saw a boat, so close that a collision was almost unavoidable. He intuitively lifted his oar as though preparing for battle and pushed away a little. A motorboat. Dupin estimated its length at nine or ten meters, big enough for a cozy sleep cabin.

“There’s nothing to see here, really.” Riwal was standing directly above them at the rail. “Nothing suspicious. Nothing to indicate violence. No traces of a struggle. Everything looks unremarkable.” He sounded disappointed.

Kadeg and Dupin reached the stern, where, alongside the engine, there was a step and a door in the railing.

“We haven’t been able to find a rope, or a line or cloth, nothing that could have been used for the murder. Whatever it was committed with, the killer took it with them or ditched it.”

Dupin stood up cautiously, the boat rocking as though he had jumped to his feet, reached toward the rail, and took a determined step onto the wood-clad step in the stern.

“You won’t find anything of interest,” Nevou greeted him. “Neither up here nor down in the cabin. This is a job for the forensics team. We’d only be contaminating the scene. If it even happened on the boat, that is.”

Dupin nodded absentmindedly.

They were on the rear deck of the boat, directly by the wheelhouse. In front of the rail was a white plastic bench, on which lay a well-worn sun hat and a bottle of water. Dupin opened the acrylic glass sliding door of the wheelhouse and stepped inside. As always with ships of this kind, it also served as a kitchen, mini dining room, and lounge. To his left he saw a bench seat upholstered in maritime blue, a table made of pale wood; to his right, a functional kitchen unit; and in front, raised up, the wheel seat and wheel itself. All of it looked astonishingly generously sized, which was also down to the panoramic windows. In contrast to his friend Henri’s boat, and, in fact, all the boats Dupin knew, something was notable by its absence: possessions wildly scattered across the cabin—books, reading glasses, newspapers, tubes of sunscreen, pullovers. Here, everything was neatly ordered, so much so it looked impersonal. Two fastidiously folded maps. A jacket hung carefully over the wheel seat. A single empty glass in the small sink.

The two inspectors and Nevou were waiting outside. They knew it was best to let Dupin do his thing.

Dupin cautiously opened the fridge: a small bottle of beer, 1664, a half-empty bottle of rosé. Nothing more. There were no signs of excess; Provost seemed to have lived a modest life. Dupin left the wheelhouse and went down into the boat’s lower cabin. This too seemed generous in size. A bed in the middle, easily one meter forty in width. The pillow was on the left-hand side of the mattress, the blanket pushed back. It looked as though Provost had only just gotten up. And like he hadn’t had time to make the bed, which, based upon the appearance of the rest of the boat, he would otherwise surely have done. At the head end of the bed, on a shelf, lay a neatly folded blanket. In the cupboards were a pair of trousers, a few T-shirts, and underwear. A sliding door led into a practical compact bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shower gel, hand towel. Perhaps the perpetrator had come on board early in the morning and overpowered Provost. A plausible scenario, albeit completely speculative for the moment.

A minute later Dupin was back up on deck; he paused in the doorway.

“We’ve just heard from the meteorological service,” reported Kadeg, “that the fog gathered at around four or five this morning. Very suddenly. Just as it did over the last few days too. If the murder happened on the boat, the perpetrator was able to act under the cover of the fog.”

Dupin had already looked around when they arrived. It had been impossible to see any neighboring boats in the fog. And from here, the body, especially at that early time of day, could have been carried off unnoticed toward the sea. The ria’s running currents went up to eight to ten kilometers an hour.

“No one spent the night on the boats in the surrounding area”—Kadeg completed his report—“they’re mostly smaller boats, belonging to locals. The nearest one that someone slept on is about fifty meters away. A family with two small children. And they didn’t notice anything suspicious.”

“The tide was at its highest point at around three oh five A.M.,” explained Riwal, “and since then it’s gone down. It reached its lowest point five minutes ago, and now the Atlantic is slowly coming back in.”

It all fit.

“When are Forensics searching the boat?”

“In just a moment, boss.”

“Let’s go back to the mainland.” Dupin moved toward the door in the stern, suddenly in a hurry. Kadeg followed. He would have to take them across one at a time in the neon-green dinghy.

Kadeg and Dupin were just sitting down, yet again having narrowly evaded a maritime mishap, when Dupin’s cell phone rang.

Nolwenn.

“Yes?”

Kadeg began to row.

“I’ve just talked at length with two of the gendarmes from the island brigade. And again with Commander Kir Cosqueric, who, of course, knows of Provost. One gendarme lives two hamlets along. It looks like our victim was immensely unpopular. And not just with one or two of his peers, but apparently with everyone who knew him. Provost was what they call a—and I quote—‘a wretch.’”

“A wretch?”

“A real monster, yes. It seems Provost had alienated everyone. The gendarme said pretty much anyone on the island could be the murderer, in theory. It seems some people really hated him.”

Well, this was one for the books.

“If the killer even comes from the island, that is.”

“Does Cosqueric suspect anyone in particular?”

Kadeg, too, was a skilled rower; they had already reached the shore.

“No, he doesn’t. But he does know all manner of conflicts Provost had with numerous people. Just not any that escalated recently.”

“Does he know anything about the inheritance side of things?”

“No. But I know who his lawyer is. He’s based in Vannes. I’m looking into it.”

“Good work.”

“It’s still murder,” established Nolwenn drily, “even if he was awful.”

“Indeed,” said Dupin distractedly. He tried to climb out of the boat in such a way that it wouldn’t capsize at the last moment.

“Should I send Goulch? To take you?”

“Goulch?”

So far, Dupin had successfully suppressed it, but if they wanted to go to Belle-Île, they would need a boat. And no matter what he might dream up, there was no plausible “urgent police-related justification” for using a helicopter, which was a prerequisite to justify the expense of such a thing. Goulch was an experienced captain with the Concarneau water police. The commissaire had already been on his boat, the proud Bir, Breton for “arrow,” once or twice. Not that he would have suddenly felt comfortable at sea with Goulch; on the contrary, he’d hated it on the Bir, but still: if he had to go with someone, then only with Goulch.

“I’ll think about it, Nolwenn. Talk later. I’ll be in touch.”

The most important thing was not to undertake any hasty missions. He had to calmly make a plan.

“One more thing, Monsieur le Commissaire. There’s quite a commotion in your neighborhood at the Corniche, people are saying there’s been a murder. That someone was drowned, and the murderer’s on the run.”

Dupin explained about Madame Claudel.

“Speak soon, Nolwenn.”

“Ken emberr.”

Dupin hung up.

“Kadeg, let everyone know we’re meeting in five minutes’ time in Les Trois Mâts. I want to speak with someone who worked at the restaurant last night.”

“Sure thing.”

The terrace of Les Trois Mâts was located on the beautiful little square, which was surrounded by old stone houses. It offered a captivating view over the water—if the fog wasn’t veiling the sea—as well as of the houses on the opposite slope. It was close enough to the harbor and the Atlantic that you could smell it—the salt, the iodine, the algae—and hear its typical soundscape; Dupin loved it. The restaurant had another, equally beautiful terrace that extended to the rear, directly above a small side branch of the ria. The restaurant’s old-fashioned wooden shutters had been stained petrol blue, and shone brightly in the sunlight. Painted above the entrance door, in the same petrol shade, was a boat with the three sails that gave the restaurant its name. The door and windows were, in the typical Breton style, framed in pale granite. Pots filled with bright-red, luxuriously blossoming petunias stood on the terrace, and beneath the first-floor windows stood colorful terrace furniture in shades of red, lilac, and yellow. Wherever you looked, there was a vibrant play of color. The motif of the three sails appeared a second time, in the form of three Atlantic-blue awnings at the edge of the terrace. A large anthracite-colored umbrella offered generous shade.

“Thank you.”

The waiter, a lanky young man, had set down a third petit café in front of Dupin; the commissaire had drunk the first two in swift succession. His daily eight-thirty café in the Amiral hadn’t happened today, which, according to Dupin’s firm conviction, always had significant impact on his ability to think. Others would say it impacted more on his mood.

The owner of Les Trois Mâts hadn’t yet appeared, but apparently his arrival was imminent. The young man and woman working there this morning had been off the night before.

Dupin had made use of the few spare minutes to make some notes. His small red Clairefontaine lay open next to the coffee cup. He had added an exclamation point and question mark to the word “monster.” Now his gaze swept around vaguely. Doëlan was an idyllic Breton location, with a picture-postcard view. In particular the two lighthouses set on the hills to either side of the ria, one painted pale green and white; the other, on the opposite bank, red and white.

Dupin’s colleagues arrived.

“We’ve spoken with the neighbors whose houses are closest to Patric Provost’s boat.” Nevou came over to Dupin’s table, with Riwal, Kadeg, and Le Menn following closely behind, and they sat down. “Nothing to report. No one heard or saw anything this morning.”

“The news has already gotten around the village, too,” added Riwal. “So if anyone had noticed anything unusual, we would probably know about it by now.”

“No one here seems to have had contact with Patric Provost. Exactly as his uncle said.”

There it went, the slight hope of being able to commence the investigations on the mainland …

“We should…”

“Bonjour.”

A man with short blond hair came toward them.

“I’m Matthieu. The owner. You wanted to speak with me?”

“We just have a few questions.”

“Of course.” The man pulled a chair over from the neighboring table and sat down.

“You’ve heard what happened this morning?”

“Yes. The victim dined here yesterday evening.”

Straight to the point; Dupin approved.

“Who served Provost and his uncle?”

“I did.”

“Did you catch anything of their conversation?”

“Nothing at all. It was quite busy yesterday evening. And it seemed they weren’t really talking that much.”

“Do you know Jean Provost, the uncle, personally?”

“Only by sight.”

“And the victim, Patric Provost?”

“Also only by sight.”

“It seems he visits every year for his uncle’s birthday.”

“I’ve never really spoken with either of them. And not yesterday either. I greeted them, they ordered, that was it.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about them yesterday evening?” asked Kadeg in an inquisitive tone. “Or perhaps somebody who, in whatever form, showed some interest in the two of them or Patric Provost? Generally speaking?”

This was Kadeg’s favorite new expression. It was driving Dupin mad.

“Nothing of note. And I didn’t notice anyone taking an interest in them either.”

“Where were they sitting?”

“In the front there.” The owner pointed toward a table for two at the other end of the terrace.

“Do you know…”

An earsplitting sound interrupted Kadeg. They all sat bolt upright. A ship’s horn. But they couldn’t see a ship, only fog. The horn sounded a second time. Now they could hear a heavy marine diesel engine too.

Riwal stood up.

“I think we—”

Dupin’s cell phone interrupted him midsentence.

“Yes?”

“We’re down here, Dupin. At the quay beneath Les Trois Mâts. Nolwenn said for me to pick you up here.”

“Down at the quay?”

It was Goulch. And the ship’s horn was the Bir’s.

Hadn’t he said he needed to think first? And how did Nolwenn know where he was?

“That’s right.”

Dupin stared out into the fog, in the direction of where Goulch’s boat must be.

“We’re just mooring, Dupin. Are you coming down? I’ll take you directly across to the island. In these conditions we can go at full speed.”

It sounded like a nightmare.

“Thalassophobia,” as he had discovered from Claire, was the technical term for the intense fear of spending time on the open water, an incredibly unfortunate phobia if you happened to live in Brittany, and one that had nothing to do with usual seasickness.

Five minutes later, the nightmare had become a reality.

The Bir, a police speedboat, in typical light gray with the proud blue, white, and red stripes, shot across the sea. On the open Atlantic, thirty nautical miles from Doëlan to Belle-Île, the brume de mer seemed even denser than on the coast. Dupin hoped the high-tech maritime machine’s radar and other sensors would recognize any obstacle: hard, soft, light, dark … And that the sea would maintain its peaceful and harmless appearance.

But the journey proved to be anything but: the boat’s prow kept lifting impetuously out of the water as though it wanted to take off skyward, only to crash its many tons of weight down onto the water’s surface a few moments later. At these speeds, it felt like concrete, prompting immense jolts and a deafening sound, which in turn was swallowed by the infernal noise of the roaring engine. It was surreal: deaf from their own sound, they were racing through a swirling, bright-white mass, and couldn’t see a thing. It was like a drug trip. Less than a hundred meters above them was the brilliant blue sky, the idyll of high summer. The intense wind pressed the air into their noses, their mouths, their lungs. Intensifying all the more the smell and taste of the sea.

Dupin stood in the stern. Alone. All the others were with Goulch on the bridge: Le Menn, Kadeg, Riwal, and two of Goulch’s colleagues. Nevou had driven back to Concarneau to assist Nolwenn and “operate” with her from the station. The two gendarmes from Quimperlé were continuing the investigations in Doëlan.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, boss? These boats are true technical marvels.”

Dupin hadn’t seen Riwal approach; suddenly he stood right next to him, and the inspector had to shout so the commissaire could hear him.

“Just think, we’re flying along at almost thirty knots right now…”

“How will we get around the island?”

Dupin had never been on Belle-Île, but he knew it wasn’t exactly small.

First they would pay a visit to Provost’s sheep-breeding site, to one of Provost’s sheep farmers. Then to the hamlet where he’d lived, and to his neighbors.

“Nolwenn has arranged a van for us, a nine-seater, it’s waiting at the harbor in Le Palais—and,” Riwal knew his commissaire well, “you’ll have your own car, Nolwenn has already rented one for you.”

“Very good.”

In that last sentence, Dupin had sensed a strange bashfulness in Riwal.

“We wouldn’t get far without a car. The island is seventeen and a half kilometers long, and nine kilometers wide at its widest point.” Riwal had emphasized the numbers in such a way that it was clear: this knowledge and precision set the Belle-Île expert apart; a tourist would have said twenty, a pseudo-expert seventeen. “We have eighteen and a half kilometers of coastal paths, just imagine.” It was already a collective “we” and Riwal was completely the Bellilois. “The alternative would be a bicycle or e-bike, boss, both are really popular on the island.”

In regular weather conditions, Dupin would have fixed his gaze on the horizon. But there was no horizon, just an even wall of white all around them.

“There’re a few things you should know about Belle-Île, boss.”

Dupin had seen it coming; it was unavoidable. Riwal’s “briefing.” He wouldn’t be able to escape it, but at least it would distract him somewhat. Hopefully.

“Belle-Île is much more than an island. It’s a realm. Even though it’s merely ‘a few hectares of land in the ocean’ as we islanders say, it’s an entire continent in its own right.”

Dupin nodded as emphatically as his current state allowed. It sounded like the kind of secret knowledge that someone wouldn’t be able to make their way in the new world without.

“A continent! The island is covered by a range of hills from the northwest to the southeast, at the highest point it’s seventy-one meters above sea level.”

At that moment, the boat made a particularly bold leap, meaning that an all-the-more hefty crash downward would follow within seconds.

“Belle-Île is shaped by deep valleys that have carved their way into this central range over hundreds of thousands of years. Small streams meander from the island’s interior, through these valleys, and to the coast.”

The boat smacked down onto the water once again. Dupin felt nauseated.

“And the continent has endless faces, boss. In the south, an elevated, wildly romantic, craggy coast with Mediterranean-esque bays, and this is also where the world-famous cliffs painted by Monet are—the ‘needles’ of Port-Coton. In the north, the coast is smooth, with fine sand. Long, white beaches, Caribbean colors. To the far west, the continent is rugged, and all the more magical for it. The island’s almost uninhabited interior is shaped by heathland, heather in intense shades of lilac, and bright yellow gorse. Fields, meadows, small enchanted woods and old hamlets. Botanical riches, thousands of varieties of flora and fauna, including incredibly exotic ones. And legendary sea pines and silver poplars everywhere. There’s even a swamp! And shifting sand dunes.”

Riwal was enthusing about a chimera, because they still couldn’t see a thing. They might as well be sailing toward Bordeaux. And besides, they weren’t heading to the island for a holiday, but to investigate a murder case.

“There’s no other ‘few hectares’ on this planet with such natural diversity, boss. It’s actually just like in Brittany, except on a smaller scale and therefore enhanced to a completely new dimension. That’s why, on Belle-Île, you always feel like you’re somewhere else. Ireland, Cornwall, the Côte d’Azur, a Caribbean island, a Channel Island, the Balearicas, Normandy, the depths of the French countryside. This feeling of être ailleurs, that’s its essence.”

It sounded insane: a place whose special feature was making a person feel like they were actually somewhere else.

By now, Dupin was feeling sick to his stomach. He leaned against the railing and tried to pull himself together.

“What kind of sheep farmer is this guy? The one we’re meeting there, Riwal?”

Dupin was struggling to formulate whole sentences.

“His name is Tenom Burlot, and theoretically he’s second-in-command in Provost’s sheep-breeding business. But it seems he didn’t get any say. Provost didn’t allow it. The gendarme who knew Provost a little said he ran his business like an old patriarch. Incredibly authoritarian, like a tyrant. I’m merely quoting.”

“Does the term ‘Acadian’ mean anything to you, Riwal?” The term had been mentioned in connection with the long-established families of the island.

Riwal beamed; it was just his kind of question. In other words, one that required an extensive answer. “That’s quite a story. A dramatic chapter of the Seven Years’ War, which was essentially the first veritable world war. It was 1761. At the start of the war, the French seized Minorca from the English. By contrast, it took the English several attempts, in spite of an overwhelming military advantage at sea, to conquer Belle-Île. They then occupied it for two years and the ancestral Bretons left the island. Eventually Minorca was exchanged for Belle-Île in the 1763 peace treaty, and it became Breton territory again.”

The boat’s hull crashed down hard onto the water.

“For the resettlement, sixty-eight families were brought across from Acadia, the French colony on the northeast coast of America, those who had been made homeless by the very same peace treaty. The Acadians created a new world here, a new society. On a smaller scale, admittedly, but still inspired by the ancient, mythical Arcadia, as well as its utopia of a golden era, the idea of a peaceful, carefree pastoral life in harmony with the island’s idyllic nature and beauty.”

Riwal’s voice trembled with pathos.

“A section of Belle-Île’s modern-day inhabitants are direct descendants of these settler families. Including the Provosts, it seems. There’s still a very active Association des Acadians here, which most of them are involved in.”

Dupin was still staring in desperation at the wall of fog. At where, theoretically, the horizon should be.

“Understood.”

For now, he didn’t need to know any more.

“You’re looking a bit green around the gills, boss. Everything okay?”

Dupin nodded in resignation.

“You know how Belle-Île came to be, right?” A jovial tone. “I think it’s best I distract you, boss.”

Dupin felt too weak to protest.

“It was the wondrous fairy clan of Rhuys, the fairies that created the Golfe du Morbihan, do you remember the story?”

The gulf lay right in front of Belle-Île, to the east of the Quiberon spit.

“When the humans, in their heinous egoism, chopped down the fairies’ enchanted forest, the mystical creatures left their home. From the endless salty tears they cried, a sea formed, the present-day gulf. Their ringlets of hair became the many little islands,” a pause, announcing that the climax of the story was imminent, “but the fairy queen’s crown, which was of otherworldly magnificence, was carried out to sea and transformed into a magic kingdom: Belle-Île. The most beautiful of all the islands on this Earth. In the Breton language, it’s called Enez ar Gerveur. Among other things, this means ‘city of the sea,’ but you can also interpret gerveur as guez: ‘beautiful.’”

Riwal was now in full flow.

“I’m getting to the most important part, boss.”

Meaning that everything so far had been of marginal importance?

“Belle-Île isn’t of this world. It eludes the usual spheres of space and time, the usual physics. As though it’s located in another dimension. On the crossing, you switch over into this realm.”

It sounded almost like a threat.

“Some people think its diversity, and that feeling of always being elsewhere, is because the island is actually moving, in a magical way. That the island materializes here and there, sometimes in the Pacific, sometimes off the Basque coast, or Ireland, or Sicily. Or…”

“I get it, Riwal.”

That was enough now. And it was becoming way too far-fetched.

“There’s a reason, after all, boss, why no other island has attracted so many artists: Monet, Rodin, Matisse, Sarah Bernhardt, Jacques Prévert, Gustave Flaubert. The island is surrounded by an aura of liberalism and artistic spirit, of immense freedom and creative anarchy.”

Riwal paused. An expression of disbelief—amazement, even—appeared on his face. And Dupin felt just the same.

While the thick sea fog had already possessed an unreal quality, what was happening now was even more surreal: it had abruptly ended. With one daring leap, the boat had catapulted itself out of the swathes into a gleaming opal that now filled the entire dome of the sky. The Atlantic, on the other hand, shimmered petrol blue. Small white triangles appeared in it: sailboats trying their luck. The air was clear, crisp, the entire world razor-sharp. The visibility open. All at once, the fog seemed to have been nothing more than a long-gone specter. Dupin turned around. It was still there behind them. And it had swallowed the entire coast. A peculiar barrier separated the two worlds, island and mainland, and the ability to return, or so it seemed, was anything but certain.

“There … there she is.” Riwal sounded as though he had seen a ghost.

And indeed: on the horizon, a vague, flat silhouette had appeared above the sea. Green, brown, light gray. A long strip.

An apparition.

They had steered starboard around one last craggy headland, at a slightly reduced speed, and passed a few small sandy bays with pine forests beyond, after which the first brilliant-white houses of Le Palais came into view. Now they were heading toward the legendary citadels that sat enthroned over the island’s capital. The maritime petrol blue had long since ceded to a plethora of light-blue and turquoise tones.

Dupin was reassured to see that the island, unlike all the other Breton islands he had visited so far, seemed impressively large. Even the mightiest of waves couldn’t overpower it, nor a storm seize it and carry it away. Not Belle-Île. What’s more, the island was the epitome of summertime gaiety and lightheartedness, the picture of calm. And yes, of sublime beauty. It seemed determined to prove, without the shadow of a doubt, that its name was justified. Perhaps it was merely down to Riwal’s preface, but Dupin could feel it: a special aura. It made him instantaneously willing to believe in happiness and an idyllic life, in any utopia.

And yet: they had come here because of a murder.

Just a short while later, the boat sailed into the picturesque harbor, which was sheltered by the high quay walls. Dupin took a deep breath. A smart lighthouse stood to attention on each side. There were boats of all kinds, as well as a colorful bustle of activity in the harbor. A maritime empire of leisure. La douceur de vivre. Or, as the Bretons said: la vie en roz. Everything here seemed to have its own rhythm.

The island capital lay on a ria too, you could see the inlet making its way inland. The little town—narrow streets, beautiful old houses in pastel tones: pink, light blue, light green, yellow—lay on both sides of the ria, directly on the water. It looked like a film set. Cafés, bars, restaurants, shops, a leisurely to-and-fro without any hurry or haste. Combined with the breathtaking view over the sweeping grounds of the citadel, it was perfectly arranged.

Goulch steered toward the quay where the ferries moored, skillfully maneuvering the boat into berth. They left the ship just a few moments later; Goulch and the Bir would remain on standby in Le Palais.

For the first few meters, Dupin was a little shaky on his legs, but his impatience to investigate swiftly won the upper hand. At least the wind and sun had thoroughly dried his clothing. He made his way up the concrete ramp and headed toward the delegation of island gendarmerie.

“Commandant Kir Cosqueric. Bonjour.”

Succinct, professional, but friendly. Next to him, two island gendarmes nodded graciously.

“Bonjour,” Dupin greeted them on behalf of his entire team. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun here was even fiercer than on the mainland, without even the slightest breeze, which was surely unusual for the island.

“Is there any news?”

“Not much.” Cosqueric—a man of impressive build, with short hair, a good-tempered face, and alert eyes—got straight to the point. “The case is far from simple. Patric Provost led quite an isolated life, almost hermit-like. No relatives, no friends. Practically no social contacts. He was, however, a member of numerous organizations; we have quite a few on the island, about a hundred and forty.” He let out something resembling a sigh.

Which meant: they knew next to nothing about the man, and the investigation wouldn’t be easy. At least not with the usual approach.

“Provost was incredibly unpopular in every association he belonged to. It’s actually quite impressive.”

The pattern was growing stronger.

“You hear the same thing from all sides. Everyone had to dance to his tune. But people mostly steered clear. He was very wealthy. He used to support certain projects a while back, off and on. But he hadn’t done that in a long time. He was incredibly tightfisted.”

“What kind of projects?” Le Menn pushed her way forward.

“Mostly infrastructure projects for the island. Once or twice, ecological initiatives too. But as I said, that was a long time ago, ten years or more.”

“Does his fortune consist of anything other than the sheep breeding and property?” Le Menn asked.

“He had considerable savings. In two accounts. Fixed deposit. Very conservative. No shares, bonds, or other investments. His estate consists predominantly of considerable land here on the island. Some of it developed, fourteen houses that he rents out across various locations, some of it undeveloped. Fields, meadows where the sheep are kept. A few of his plots of land are among the last remaining building plots on the island, so they’re incredibly valuable.”

They seemed to have investigated everything there was to investigate.

“Your car’s over there, by the way.” Cosqueric pointed along the quay and began to walk. “We should make a move, Tenom Burlot is waiting for us. We’ll have opportunity to talk later.”

On the wall of a brilliantly white house directly on the quay was a sign with large, light-blue lettering: Locatourisle—Location de voitures. Dupin now saw the aforementioned van. A Peugeot 807. In frog green. Other than that, there was just an old Citroën Méhari in a cheerful orange, a real classic, kind of like the cabriolet version of the equally legendary Dyane. Angular and oddly shapeless, the typical corrugated iron, it was more like a box without a roof. The standard, narrow tires. Cosqueric noticed Dupin’s searching gaze.

“Here, in the front.”

He was pointing unmistakably at the Méhari.

“The Citroën. You did want your own car, didn’t you?”

Dupin tried to conceal his childlike joy.

“Nolwenn had to take what was available, boss.” Riwal jumped in to defend the choice. “The day-trippers come in on the first boats. It was the only car left. But of course, you could come with us in the van…”

“It’s fine, Riwal.”

“The rental companies on the island,” explained the commander matter-of-factly, “specialize in legendary old cars. Fun cars. Renault 4, Citroën Deux Chevaux, models like that. But especially the Méhari. Some are electric now, though I’m afraid this one isn’t.”

“Our island is in the process of becoming one of the first smart islands in Europe, boss,” added Riwal, his chest swelling with pride, “a massive project. The idea is simple: zero emissions! The island is to become carbon dioxide neutral, the entire tourism industry, in fact. That includes self-sufficiency with green energy, solar panels on all public buildings, and soon offshore wind turbines. That’s also how they generate the energy for the island’s electric cars…”

“That’s great, Riwal.” Dupin strode decisively toward the Méhari. He had owned this exact model in toy scale as a boy. It was one of the most idiosyncratic, wonderful cars ever made.

“Thirty horsepower, air-cooled two-cylinder boxer engine.” Cosqueric tried to boost Dupin’s spirits. “And four-wheel drive. Only twelve hundred of them were made.”

“Indestructible, with a plastic chassis, completely futuristic in 1968,” Riwal added with enthusiasm. “The name originates from the African fast-running dromedary camel.”

“The key’s in the ignition. And there’s a sun hat and tube of sunscreen on the passenger seat.” Cosqueric gestured toward Dupin’s head. “Someone left it behind. The sun’s really strong down here in the south, and the car doesn’t have a roof. All I can say is: take my word for it.”

Dupin nodded and jumped into the car, which didn’t have any doors, just rounded recesses in the chassis, but at least there was a kind of safety belt. His gaze fell on the bright red cap, on which Tahiti was emblazoned in large black letters, with a blue palm tree beneath the writing. The cap was one thing, but sunscreen? He wasn’t on a beach holiday. Besides, he had an ardent aversion to sunscreen.

Riwal noticed Dupin’s skepticism.

“Boss, it really can get brutally hot here on the island. And it feels even hotter. At thirty degrees you’ll think it’s forty.”

For once, Riwal wasn’t exaggerating. Today it was thirty degrees for sure, and it really did feel like forty.

“It’s like the island’s on a barbecue, boss.”

“Oh, and by the way”—Cosqueric had remembered something—“the press has already been asking for you. For a statement. The island press, that is, and two journalists from the offices in Vannes, who have already arrived. Le Télégramme and Ouest-France. I’ve told them you’re not currently available to speak.”

“Good,” replied Dupin. It was important that they could investigate in peace. “Then let’s head off to the farm.” He reached for the long gear stick that jutted out alongside the steering wheel; the car’s interior was orange too. “Riwal, you’ll come with me to see the sheep farmer. Cosqueric, you drive ahead. Kadeg and Le Menn, go with the two gendarmes to Provost’s house. We’ll join you there later.”

They had to split up in order to get some momentum into the investigation.

A smile appeared on Dupin’s face as he pulled the choke and turned on the engine. He looked expectantly at the group from his orange box. At once, everyone made their way to their cars. He waited until the commander drove past him in his police Peugeot, and then, with a hefty lurch forward, followed him.

They had soon left the town, and for a long while the route went uphill. Cosqueric set a decent speed. Dupin had put on the cap and pulled it low over his forehead. They passed through hundreds of green tones, intense, bright, interspersed with the lilac of the heather and bright yellow of the gorse. The road went up and down, nestling harmoniously against the hilly landscape. To the right and left of the road were small pine forests that had merged together, and sometimes the route went through the middle of them. On the left-hand side, the Atlantic came into view from time to time, in spectacular snapshots. Insane contrasts, the green, then the gleaming blue. The island was much less densely inhabited than Dupin had imagined, and much more rural too; again and again they drove past dense shrubbery and bushes, hollows into which streams flowed. Flower-filled meadows lined the road. Cliffs could be seen here and there. Dupin could smell thyme, rosemary, pine, everything that blossomed. Dozens of scents intermingled. And always, in the midst of it all, the smell of the sea.

Their small convoy must have made quite a curious picture. Cosqueric in front, with Dupin behind in his fun car—Louez-moi, “Rent Me,”—written in large letters on the trunk—and last of all Riwal, alone in his frog-green van.

“We’re looking for Monsieur Burlot.” With Dupin and Riwal directly behind him, Cosqueric strode toward a young woman and a tall man in his midforties, both of whom had the same length hair, bound into ponytails. They wore khaki-colored work trousers, high black rubber boots; the woman a dark blouse, and the man a baggy T-shirt in a faded green. Two collies leaped rambunctiously around their feet.

Cosqueric tacked on an abrupt “Bonjour,” which now hung in the air, strangely disjointed.

The man and woman had stepped out of one of the corrugated metal huts, which stood on a slightly upward-sloping meadow directly behind the eastern end of the Plage des Grands Sables.

Dupin, Riwal, and Cosqueric had needed to search around in order to find the place. The unsurfaced track had led to a small old farmhouse directly behind the dunes, where they had parked. An elongated barn and a modest house, both constructed from a pleasant light-gray stone. Enormous rosemary and lavender bushes surrounded the house. At its front was a view of the beach, the sea, and three magnificent fig trees, which stood huddled next to one another.

There were no signs indicating a business or the owner of the land, but there were an impressive number of warnings, forbidding access to the property in large lettering. Behind the house, you could see the meadow and the sheep. They had heard them from a distance: their bleating, a large flock.

“That’s me,” confirmed the wiry man in a gentle voice. He looked serious.

“We spoke on the phone. I’m Commander Cosqueric. This is Commissaire Dupin, who’s leading the investigation.”

“Madame, monsieur, bonjour,” Dupin greeted them.

The two collies showed extreme interest in Dupin; one was snuffling at his left leg, the other at his hands. The young woman set off toward the barn: “I’ll see you later, Tenom.”

“How can I help?”

Burlot spoke even more softly than before.

“By telling us your thoughts on the murder. About who might have wanted Patric Provost dead.”

Burlot looked down and put his right hand to the back of his neck.

“To be straight with you: I didn’t have a very good relationship with Monsieur Provost. No one did. But nor would I suspect anyone of murdering him. I mean, none of the people I know and who had, let’s say … difficulties with him.”

“And there are many who did?”

He hesitated for a brief moment. “I live in the same hamlet as Provost. Islonk. In the south. The house I live in belongs to him. The accommodation is part of my salary,” another pause, “which is very modest. In Islonk, everyone is at loggerheads with him.”

“How many people live in Islonk?”

“There are seven houses. Including Provost’s.”

“And you know everyone who lives there well?”

“Yes, of course.”

Riwal interjected: “The entire island has no more than fifty-three hundred inhabitants. There are four smaller towns: the capital, Le Palais; Sauzon in the northwest; Locmaria in the southwest; and Bangor in the interior. The rest of the island’s inhabitants live in hamlets like Islonk. Imagine them like tiny little islands on the island, boss. Apart from during Easter and the summer season, there’s not much going on in Belle-Île, so people keep to their neighborhoods.”

Riwal’s words sounded more threatening than idyllic.

“Islonk, by the way, means something like ‘abyss’ or ‘gorge,’” the island commander explained. That seemed more fitting.

“Islonk is where Monet’s famous cliff needles are,” added Riwal.

“And were any of these people particularly at odds with Monsieur Provost, Monsieur Burlot?” Dupin tried to spur the conversation on.

The sheep farmer fixed them with a concentrated gaze. He had a youthful look to him. Dupin couldn’t detect even a hint of a beard. “Hard to say. Everyone has their own issues with him. But,” Burlot tried to sound firm, “as I said, I’m pretty sure none of us are capable of murder.”

“So you mean there’d be reason enough,” Riwal persisted, “for each of you to commit murder, but you don’t believe anyone would actually be capable of it?”

“No. I mean…” Burlot seemed confused for a moment. “I don’t think anyone is capable of murder, that’s correct. But no, none of these conflicts would be grounds for murder.”

“And your ‘issues’ with Provost? What did they consist of?” Dupin prompted.

“Actually, there aren’t any now.”

“What does that mean?”

The collies were still snuffling at Dupin and licking his hands. Perhaps it was the salt on his skin, from swimming this morning.

“I decided to hand in my notice and go it alone. With my own breed. On the mainland.”

“Did Provost know this?”

“Yes, he’d known for a month. I would have liked to stay here. But with more autonomy, more actual responsibility. Theoretically, even nominally, I run things here. And it’s a considerably sized business. But he didn’t let me make any of the decisions. We argued every day.”

Dupin wasn’t sure he could imagine the gentle sheep farmer arguing.

“Did you speak openly with Monsieur Provost, give him the choice?” Dupin probed. He had left the sun hat in the car. A mistake. The sun was burning down mercilessly and sweat was dripping over his forehead. By now it already felt like much more than forty degrees …

“I even gave him an ultimatum. Until the end of May. I first spoke with him seriously about it in March, and asked him to tell me whether he would agree to me working here independently, with immediate effect. I’d had enough.”

“How long have you been working for him?”

“Almost two years.”

“What were these daily arguments you mentioned about?” The island commander joined in the questioning,

“Everything, really. With Provost, everything turned into an argument, because everything had to be done exactly as he wanted it. Out of principle. Through sheer stubbornness. No matter whether it made sense or not.”

“Could you give me a few examples?” The statement was too abstract for Dupin.

All of a sudden, a large group of sheep showed interest in the humans on their meadow and came toward them at speed. The two collies shot off, barking wildly.

“We need a completely new, professional IT system. Our hardware and software are twelve years old. It makes everything incredibly hard work.” Burlot looked over at the barn into which the young woman had disappeared. “Work that we then have to do. Not Provost. But he always said that as long as the computers were still working, we had to use them. He was ridiculously stingy. And”—for the first time his gentle manner shifted and a change in temperament, a slight flare of anger, became noticeable—“I think he enjoyed seeing how it was driving us crazy.”

Dupin made a few notes.

“But the biggest issues were strategic matters regarding the sheep.”

“What you mean by that? Precisely?”

The sheep had begun to surround them. A few were jet black.

“I’d like to introduce a third breed, Finnsheep. Their profitability is even higher than our two existing kinds. Higher fertility and earlier sexual maturity.”

That was very precise indeed.

“But they’re by no means overbred. It’s a really old variety, probably the closest to wild sheep. And they make excellent meat, outstanding wool, it’s really soft, light, and thick. They don’t have horns and have a solid skeleton, very sturdy for the winter, they’re very calm, with a weak herd instinct, and they also cope well with sparse ground, like on the coastal cliffs here, so they’re ideal for us.”

Burlot praised the sheep’s qualities as though they were technical features on a car.

“Provost was adamant about sticking to the two breeds we already have. And I wouldn’t want to give them up either, not at all. I’d like to try and crossbreed them.”

Riwal saw his chance: “Your second breed, that’s the Landes de Bretagne, I presume?” He turned to Dupin. “The species is also from southern Brittany.”

Dupin was reminded of his telephone call with Nolwenn.

“Exactly. The ones here are predominantly Landes de Bretagne.” Burlot nodded his head toward the sheep, which were now encircling them even more closely. This no longer seemed to be bothering the two sheepdogs, who had returned to Dupin’s side. “Also an excellent breed. Very social, very resilient, producing firm and delicate meat. Their salty, full-bodied milk is made into cheese here on the island. You can taste everything in it: the ocean, the salt, the aromatic grass, the wild herbs.”

Dupin felt a familiar restiveness; he was beginning to salivate.

“These here”—Riwal pointed toward three animals who had come so close that Dupin feared they were also about to lick him—“are Belle-Île sheep. They’re easily recognizable by their characteristic appearance.”

In spite of his direct proximity to them, Dupin wasn’t able to spot anything out of the ordinary; to him, they were simply sheep that looked like sheep.

“Regardless of whether they’re white, gray, brown, or black,” the sheep farmer continued, “their long ears are unmistakable, and their long legs, the sparse wool on their heads, and the fact they don’t have horns, not even the rams.”

“You know the crazy story now, boss: that they had almost died out. Now there are about a thousand of them again, including a hundred rams, which isn’t a lot, but still. You—”

“I’d like to—” Dupin interrupted Riwal, only to be interrupted himself, by the ringing of his cell phone. Without saying a word, he cleared himself a path through the animals and walked up the meadow a few steps. The collies followed him loyally.

It was Claire.

“Yes?”

“I’ve just finished the surgery. A colleague told me you’re on Belle-Île. He heard it on the radio.”

“I was just about to call you, Claire.”

“Might you be passing Fluïd?”

“What?”

“It’s this fantastic glassblowing workshop. With the hundred colors. We have two of their glasses. I’d like a couple more. The shop is in Le Palais.”

“I…”

“I’ll send you a text. I have to go to the intensive care unit now, Georges, speak later.”

And with that, she was gone.

Dupin knew which glasses she meant. But he hadn’t known they were from here. It made sense, though; they had been a present from Riwal. As he made his way back to his colleagues and the sheep farmer, his gaze was drawn to the beach. It was dreamlike. Bordered by two hilly land protrusions—one of which they were standing on right now—it stretched a good two kilometers along the gleaming turquoise sea, which only took on its typical blue tones farther out. It seemed to be gradually intensifying. The beach was wide and open and, in spite of the glorious weather, practically deserted.

Dupin picked back up on the questioning as though he’d never paused: “I heard Provost was the president of the sheep-breeding association for the Belle-Île sheep.” He flicked through his notebook. “Denved ar Vro.”

Tenom Burlot nodded.

“Are you aware of any conflicts within the association?”

The sheep farmer eyed Dupin critically.

“You still don’t have the proper idea of Patric Provost, monsieur,” he said, again with consummate gentleness in his voice. “He was in conflict with everyone, the entire time.” An intentionally placed pause. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“And what were these ones about?”

“They wanted to put more money into PR work, for example, and the membership fees should have been raised. He strictly vetoed that. He himself had excellent business relationships with clients, the gastronomy industry, textile producers, and he had zero interest in intensifying PR. His breed dominates the market.”

“How many other members are in the association?”

“Eight.”

“And how many sheep farmers, or rather, employees, does your, Provost’s, breed have here?” asked Riwal.

The two dogs were still staying close by Dupin. He was slowly getting used to it. The smaller one had lain down next to him.

“On Belle-Île there are five of us, and if you include the mainland too, ten. But no one sticks around for long.”

The question as to why could clearly be spared.

“When did you last see Provost, monsieur?” Cosqueric had beaten Dupin to the question.

“Lunchtime yesterday. He came by briefly.”

“For what purpose?”

“One of his random control visits.”

As they knew, at some point in the afternoon, Provost had then set off for Doëlan.

“There was nothing he needed to do here?”

“There’s never anything he needs to do here, actually. Everything runs without him.”

“What time was his visit?”

“Just after midday.”

“How long was he here?”

“Ten minutes.”

“And where?”

“In the house. I was out here.”

“So you didn’t see what he did?”

“No. Presumably he checked the sales and financial receipts. The company computer is here in the office. Although—he can access some things from his house in Islonk. He had it set up like that a few years ago.”

“Where were you yesterday evening, Monsieur Burlot?” Dupin fixed the sheep farmer firmly in his gaze. Burlot seemed to have no issue with the direct question.

“I stayed here late yesterday evening, until ten for sure. Then I was in Islonk. I stopped in for a nightcap with Byn and Margot Fidelin. They own one of the two whisky distilleries on the island. Goulou. And a simple bar.” All of a sudden, his gaze seemed dreamlike. “Behind the house there’s this legendary bench with a fantastic view of the bay. Margot makes glass and ceramics, Byn the whisky.” He smiled.

It sounded blissful, Dupin had to admit. He would pay them a visit soon. And hopefully get a coffee in Goulou.

“Were there any other neighbors from Islonk there yesterday evening?” Cosqueric asked.

“Micheline was there too. Micheline Corbel, a retired teacher. She’s my next-door neighbor. She’s a Sarah Bernhardt enthusiast and works as a tourist guide.”

“And where were you this morning between the hours of five and eight, Monsieur Burlot?” the island commander continued.

“At home. Until nine. And before that, just at the bakery in Le Palais. Le Fournil. I set off at ten after seven to get baguettes for a few of us. I do that quite a lot. Occasionally someone else goes.”

“And someone in the bakery could confirm that for us?”

“Yvonne herself served me. The owner.”

“Then we’ll be able to verify that. How did—”

A loud, shrill ringtone interrupted Cosqueric. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell.

“Yes?”

He listened for a while.

“What?” He sounded alarmed. “Lots of them? Letters?”

Now Dupin’s cell phone rang. And a moment later, Riwal’s too. Both tried to take a few steps to the side, which, with the sheep around them, wasn’t so easy; the ringtones and sudden movement were making them nervous. Their bleating was deafening.

Dupin saw Kadeg’s name on the display.

“What’s up, Kadeg?”

“Is that you, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

One of Kadeg’s many quirks. And yet, this time, Dupin had to concede the sheep had probably drowned out his voice.

“What’s happened?”

“We’ve taken a look at Patric Provost’s house.”

An unnecessary pause.

“And?”

“Provost was being threatened. Blackmailed. What’s that noise, Monsieur le Commissaire? I almost can’t hear you.”

“He was being blackmailed?”

A large group of sheep had followed the commissaire. He had unintentionally walked toward a feeding trough, and they were staring at him expectantly.

“A demand for money, Monsieur le Commissaire, anonymous”—Kadeg seemed to be screaming into his cell phone—“a million euros. Otherwise, they would kill him. Three letters, three warnings. The first one is a good three weeks old. From the twentieth of July.”

Dupin fell silent for a while. The sheep, unfortunately, did not.

“Did—you—understand, Monsieur—le—Commissaire? A—demand—for money. They wanted—”

“I’ll be there right away, Kadeg.”

Now it was really getting interesting. Dupin hung up and signaled to Riwal and Cosqueric, who had also ended their calls, to head toward their cars.

By now Dupin understood what Riwal had meant by “numerous little islands on the island,” with the widely scattered hamlets, the small clusters of houses in the middle of nowhere. The closer you got to the coast in the south, the more isolated the hamlets became. Borzose and Le Vazen, the two hamlets before Islonk, had consisted of at least a dozen houses each. But beyond them, civilization had retreated more and more. Even the vegetation became sparser. It really was a different world. The south of the island consisted of a vast plateau with small valleys and isolated bays carved into it. After leaving the narrow D25, the main road that led across the entire ridge of the island—connecting Sauzon in the northwest and Locmaria in the southeast—they had passed ancient woodlands and meter-high ferns. Before long, only the occasional windswept sea pine could be seen, and eventually not even that. The location, exposed to the powerful south and west winds as well as the spray from the open sea, didn’t allow more than shrubbery, low bushes, mini ferns, grasses, and moss to survive. But of these, there seemed to be countless varieties.

The road had descended gently into one of the small valleys, then ended abruptly in Islonk. A little stream had laboriously eaten its way into the plateau, probably with the help of numerous floods over thousands of years. Like a crater, the valley ran down to a spectacular beach: at least three hundred meters of fine sand in a shimmering, delicate pink. L’anse du Vazen. It looked like a long finger. A sand finger. Harmoniously curved, massive cliffs rose up to the right and left, the stone a light gray that darkened down toward the water; the cliffs on the waterline were deep black. The cliff tops displayed a bleak green with yellow and orange-reddish tones.

From the end of the asphalted road, a short gravel path led up in a star formation to seven houses. They stood close to one another as though they had gathered for mutual protection, almost in a circle, like a barricade of wagons. And quite rightly. It was hard to imagine as a vacationer, but when the great winter storms arrived, all hell broke loose here. All the elements raged: hurricane winds; the tempestuous, white-gray sea; gigantic waves as tall as houses, their spray crashing across the entire island. Mighty floods; monstrous clouds, deep and black, filling the entire sky so that darkness reigned even during the day. Visibility dropping to less than a meter. The sea is roaring, that’s what sea folk said on days like this.

This is your final warning. If you don’t pay the demanded sum of a million euros, you’ll pay with your life. Midnight tomorrow is the deadline. If you are ready to do so, attach a red dot, clearly visible, behind the front windshield of your boat. We’ll know if you contact the police.

The date and time stood left-aligned in the bottom margin: August 4, 11:00 A.M.

“Arial. The most commonly used font,” Le Menn established, “standard inkjet printer, standard printer paper.”

Dupin had picked the note up for a third time. He was wearing the gossamer-thin protective gloves, even though he hated them. He had also read the previous two messages several times. The first, as Kadeg said, was from July 20. The time was given here too: “10:00 A.M.” Strange.

To Patric Provost,

We hereby demand from you one million euros in cash. Should you not comply with this demand, you will die. The same will apply if you contact the police. We are giving you a week to get the money together. Once you are ready, fasten a red dot, clearly visible, to the front windshield of your boat. You will then receive further instructions.”

A blank line, then:

This is not a joke.

The second letter consisted merely of two sentences:

To show you we mean business, we’ve taken your dog. You’re next. You have a week.

July 28, 10:00 A.M.

The letter was dated on the day following the expiry of the first ultimatum.

Riwal had already called Burlot, and discovered that Provost had also had a collie, which so far no one had mentioned. The dog had, among other things, protected the small herd of sheep that Provost kept on the meadow behind the hamlet. Twenty of them, Belle-Île sheep. Tenom Burlot hadn’t seen the dog in a long while, but Provost, according to Burlot’s statement, had only occasionally brought him along.

The dog wasn’t in the house, nor the garden. Kadeg and the two island gendarmes had searched everywhere; a little farther uphill, on the large meadow, they had discovered the sheep but not the dog. Le Menn had suggested they ask Provost’s uncle in Doëlan. The uncle knew of the dog, whose name was Louis, even though Patric Provost had never brought him along. He hadn’t mentioned anything to his uncle about the dog being missing or something having happened to him. Nor had Provost’s uncle had any idea his nephew was being blackmailed.

Meanwhile, the commander of the island brigade had found out Provost hadn’t contacted his bank in the last few weeks regarding the withdrawal of a large sum. He had merely withdrawn four hundred euros from the cash machine in Le Palais, like he did once every month. Otherwise, he paid by credit card, but even that amounted to very little. He seemed to have lived incredibly frugally.

“It’s exactly like the case in Nantes three years ago. Generally speaking, at least.”

“What?”

The commissaire had turned abruptly.

“The extortion case that was never solved, that millionaire who—”

“I know the one.”

Dupin had totally forgotten about it. It seemed they all had—apart from Kadeg. An unmarried, older industrialist, a multimillionaire, had been blackmailed. The whole thing had gone on for an entire month. In the end, he had paid. Only after that did he go to the police, and due to an indiscretion, the case had become public. Intense investigations had ensued for over six months afterward, but all in vain. The police—and Nantes had a hard-hitting team—hadn’t been able to find one single legitimate clue. By the end, they’d had so little to go on that it was an utter mystery.

“Kadeg, follow this up. Call Nantes and speak to the detective who led the investigation.”

It seemed a little far-fetched, given that the blackmailing was three years ago. Why would the perpetrator suddenly target Belle-Île, of all places? And Provost? But nonetheless.

Kadeg left the room, looking very pleased with himself.

They were on the first floor of the house, in Provost’s study. It had just one window, a bay, in a slate-tiled roof, and next to the window was a large desk with an old computer. It was a simple, functional wooden table, from the sixties perhaps, and in front of it stood a fabric-upholstered, gray plastic desk chair, also an older model. The view from the bay window was phenomenal; Provost’s house was located in a direct extension of the long bay.

Three dark-green box files lay on the table: one with incoming and one with outgoing correspondence, copies, printouts. One with receipts. Kadeg had found the blackmail letters—macabre but consistent—in the “incoming” file.

Otherwise, there was nothing in the house that seemed suspicious. Overall, it had confirmed the impression the boat and all the comments on Provost’s lifestyle had already conveyed: he had evidently, in spite of his considerable fortune, led a very austere life. His only passion genuinely seemed to have been Napoleon Bonaparte. Both here in the study and on the ground floor, there were paintings and illustrations of the revolutionary, general, first consul, emperor, and—ultimately—dictator. A framed newspaper page from his final year hung over the desk. Dupin remembered the headline; it had been the topic of debate all across Brittany: “Napoleon—a Breton?” As Napoleon was undoubtedly one of the most significant figures in recent world history, and still shaped Europe today, he couldn’t really be anything else. And in fact, Napoleon himself had speculated during his lifetime about his possible Breton heritage, being of the opinion that he was born in 1771 in Finistère, not far from Morlaix. Not on Corsica. The latest historical research now suggested exactly this. And Bonaparte’s close connection with the region was documented by his 364-kilometer-long gift to Brittany: the canal between Nantes and Brest, a gigantic infrastructural measure.

“This is an old pilotage house, by the way, boss.” Riwal had stepped over to Dupin. “From the late nineteenth century. There are several on the island. The pilots, mostly from the Acadian clan, were the island’s aristocracy. Highly respected, affluent, like notaries or captains. The house was a status symbol. Like the palm in front of it. Palms were rare on the island back then.”

It was a very pretty house, picturesque, but of humble dimensions; by no means a villa. Thick stone walls, rendered and whitewashed. The most striking feature was the wooden front door—painted sky blue like the window frames and shutters—which had a glass window within a carved frame at the top. To the left- and right-hand side of the door were two additional windows. At the back of the house, overlooking the bay, a door led into the garden, directly beneath the window Dupin was looking through now. The garden was narrow and moss-covered, and encircled by a little stone wall, from which a path led to the meadow above the hamlet, where the sheep grazed. There was a round, weather-beaten stone table in the garden, with a single chair in front. Next to it was an empty dog bowl.

“The pilotage houses are all more or less alike. Their style is markedly different from the normal farmhouse style, and from the small fishing houses. The pilotage houses are all right by the sea, all of them have an extended roof and bay window, just like here. For professional reasons: in order to be able to see the sea at all times. This was the workroom.”

“Pilots? Air traffic controllers?” Dupin only now realized he didn’t have a clue what Riwal meant. On the way here, they had passed the solitary runway of a tiny airport.

“No, master navigators who offered their services to the ships, especially trade ships. The waters around Belle-Île are absolute hell, so reliable experts are a must.”

“I see.”

“And I see what the sheep farmer meant by old and laborious.”

Le Menn was leaning over the desk, moving the cursor around the screen. The computer wasn’t password-protected, something Dupin had never experienced before. Once the thing had finally fired up, Le Menn, who was the most computer-savvy of them all, had been able to take a look and was now searching through the hard drive. In the e-mail program, the writing tool, the browser, and bookkeeping software. But so far, she hadn’t stumbled across anything of interest.

“There’s no organization to the files, either. It’s really difficult to get an overview of what’s on here.” Le Menn sighed. “It would drive me mad.” She clicked a few times. “Given there’s no password, anyone who was here would have been able to delete whatever they wanted. I can’t see any indication of that, at first glance, but any relatively experienced PC user would know how to do it without leaving conspicuous clues.”

The commander of the island gendarmerie came up the stairs.

“We’ve spoken to the neighbors. No one nearby has any suggestions.” Cosqueric came to join the small group in front of the bay window. “But you’ll be able to speak with everyone yourself in a moment.”

That was Dupin’s plan. He wanted to meet them. All of them.

“Did you know Provost used to be married?” Cosqueric continued. “We hadn’t realized.”

“Patric Provost?” The commissaire raised an eyebrow.

That was a real surprise. No one had mentioned this detail either.

“Yes. And it gets even stranger. His ex-wife lives here in the hamlet too. Agnès Griffon. An electrical technician who, among other things, takes care of the island’s drinking water supply.”

“Here?”

“In one of his houses. She’s fifty-three, and they’ve been divorced for twenty-one years. She’s in a long-term relationship with a guy in Vannes. It seems she and Provost no longer have anything to do with each other.”

“Despite living next door.”

“Not really. She lives in the first house on the right as you drive into the hamlet.”

A hundred and fifty meters away. At most.

“All the houses here belong to Provost. Only the captain’s doesn’t. Albert Zinc. It’s a pilotage house too, but he owns it.”

“And all the others are Provost’s?”

“That’s right. The inhabitants are all Provost’s tenants.”

“So they include,” Dupin consulted his little notebook, “the sheep farmer. The whisky man and his wife. The retired teacher and Sarah Bernhardt enthusiast. And the ex-wife.”

“Albert Zinc is one of the captains of Compagnie Océane, the ferry company that connects the islands of Belle-Île, Houat, and Hoëdic with the mainland,” explained Cosqueric, “a very well-respected man in his late fifties. A confirmed bachelor. He’s not back until early afternoon, so he won’t be there when you meet with the neighbors. The island’s entire food supply is brought across on the ferries. The two larger ones, Vindilis and Bangor, always take a few cars too.”

“Those are the five other people here in the hamlet?”

“That’s right, boss. A motley crew. The Bellilois are free spirits. Connoisseurs of the art of living.” Dupin had already noticed that Riwal’s gaze kept wandering to Dupin’s head, and now he realized why: he was wearing the red Tahiti cap. “The Fidelin couple live in one house, so in total it’s seven houses.”

Dupin took off the cap and turned back to Cosqueric. “What about the seventh?”

“Apparently it’s in quite a poor state. In urgent need of repair. The heating doesn’t work and the roof leaks. But in Provost’s opinion, the tenants were just making a fuss. To him, the house was fine. Now it’s essentially been empty for two years, but occasionally he manages to rent it out during the summer.”

“And currently?”

“It’s rented to a menhir researcher.”

Dupin looked at him questioningly.

“It seems the man’s writing a book about Carnac and the surrounding area. You know, Carnac, the Stonehenge of Brittany, where—”

“I know.”

Everyone knew the world-famous, seven-thousand-year-old megaliths that stood in astonishingly consistent rows, stretching for almost four kilometers. Just the two most important sites alone included three thousand menhirs. The “Giant of Manio,” the largest, was six meters tall.

“There are two famous menhirs here on the island too,” the commander of the island brigade commented.

“Some researchers even claim,” Riwal’s inevitable contribution followed, “that the menhirs of the entire region around Carnac, including those on the island—which six thousand years ago wasn’t even an island, remember—are secretly connected. A megalithic super site, in other words, the largest in the world. It has a unique aura and energy. We’re talking about physics and not esoterism, mind you—extremely strong, now well-documented geomagnetic fields that are precisely mapped by the stone rows. It’s about tangible, scientifically proven phenomena which, naturally, also impact on human beings.”

Riwal himself was a phenomenon: in one moment an admirable rationalist, technician, down-to-earth pragmatist, and in the next, a mystic storyteller. Yet in Brittany, Dupin had learned, these two things were very closely intertwined. There was certainly no objection to the Breton sensitivity here, in any case. Perhaps because, in the end, everything—and in particular the most fundamental things, humanity and the world—were mere narratives that you could look at either one way or another. As myths, or as science.

“We’ll also have to speak with the menhir researcher,” said Dupin, and he sighed. He went over to the stairs. Cosqueric and Riwal followed; Le Menn stayed by the computer. Dupin went down the steep, creaking steps.

“Cosqueric, can you think of anyone on the island who has that kind of criminal potential? For blackmail, murder?”

Dupin stepped into the large living room, which was just as sparsely furnished as the room upstairs.

“I would have already mentioned if so.”

Of course he would have.

“The blackmailer didn’t necessarily know Provost personally. Anyone who knew that Provost had a considerable fortune is a possible perpetrator. Here on the island or on the mainland.”

Dupin headed toward the front door. “Let’s meet in fifteen minutes at the distillery.”

Where there would hopefully also be a café. He needed a moment to himself. And to make a phone call.

Dupin stepped out into the open air, and into the oppressive heat.

The water in the bay didn’t shimmer, it gleamed. So much so that it looked almost over-the-top. In different colors, depending on the depth and surface beneath. Shades of cyan, turquoise, aquamarine, jade, lagoon green, light sea green, and of course, a myriad of blue tones too: bright blue, steel blue, powder blue, light cornflower blue. And over the open sea: royal blue, navy blue.

Earlier, in Dupin’s Parisian life, there hadn’t been so many colors. Here in Brittany, there were dozens, unavoidably, because they were needed in order to describe the surrounding landscape. Claire had a passion for colors and their descriptions. She effortlessly juggled names that Dupin had never even heard: spring green, lime green, chartreuse, and even parakeet, which she had recently used to describe the bright, otherworldly green of algae. Algae green was also a recognized color, he had discovered, but one that was harmlessly matte in comparison. She also always unerringly identified the one mythical color that existed only in Brittany: glaz. Not even the French language had an equivalent for this natural shade of blue, green, and gray produced by the Atlantic.

Even though it was surely impossible, the light and colors here on this zany island seemed even more intense than elsewhere in Brittany. You could understand why Monet, Rodin, and Matisse had fallen in love with Belle-Île. It was a world drenched with light.

The commissaire had walked along a narrow, stony path to the left-hand side of the house, over the plateau and to the end of the bay, then farther along the coast. A cliff: grand, majestic, wildly rugged, as far as the eye could see. Dupin had been repeatedly stopped in his tracks by the view. Here on the rocks high above the sea, he felt like he was on the balcony of a magnificent theater, being offered a display of dizzying infinities. There was something celebratory and awe-inspiring to it, yet without any note of fear.

The scene was clearly a North Atlantic one, reminding him of Cornwall or southern Ireland; the ambiance, on the other hand, felt Mediterranean, which was surely down to the blazing sun, even more unrelenting here on the plateau, and also the dusty dryness, the complete absence of a breeze, the calm of the sea, and the bleakness of the landscape. Of course, by Breton standards they were actually far south, almost on a level with Île de Noirmoutier and Île de Ré. What had Riwal said? That the island’s most significant characteristic was how it always made you feel like you were somewhere else: être ailleurs. Dupin was reminded of the idea of the island shifting its location, appearing first here, then there …

He pulled out his cell phone.

“Monsieur le Commissaire. Riwal just brought me up to date,” Nolwenn greeted him.

“Good.”

All the better. Dupin hated summaries.

“Nevou and I have now spoken with everyone possible, including the police in Carnac and two gendarmes from Île d’Hoëdic, where there are branches of Provost’s sheep-breeding business. And with his on-site sheep farmers. Nothing.” Nolwenn seemed to take a deep breath. “We’ll also soon have a precise breakdown of his financial assets. Nevou is speaking with his bank, the branches in Le Palais and in Vannes. They can’t make head nor tail of the incident, but have intimated he was a very difficult customer.”

An incredibly consistent character sketch.

“The itemized bills for his cell phone have just arrived.”

Nolwenn and Nevou really were on the ball.

“From June, July, and August. I’ll send them to you in a moment. There aren’t that many. That’s avarice for you. His landline and cell phone were both with Orange, and the cell phone was a company one. But he still only had the basic tariff.”

Avarice was a quality Nolwenn couldn’t stand. Admittedly, neither could Dupin.

“Go over the phone records with Nevou for me, Nolwenn.”

Dupin had walked on aimlessly. Just off the coast, rugged and bizarre rock formations jutted out of the sea, almost as high as the plateau they had once been part of, before the ocean, floods, storms, and apocalyptic rainfall had made it crumble. A fate which eventually, inevitably, would also overtake the rock protrusion on which Dupin was now standing, as well as the entire cliff plateau, even the whole little “continent.” All around the rocks were sparkling white streaks of spray; given there wasn’t even the hint of a wave, they must be triggered by the currents. They looked like mysterious symbols, etched into the sea. The steeply protruding rocks, menhirs of the ocean, looked just as cryptic.

“Nevou’s already on it.”

“When was the last call made?”

“Just a moment.”

He heard the clatter of the keyboard.

“There we go.”

Dupin paused for a moment. He thought he’d seen someone in the distance. Had it just been a shadow? But of what?

“Yesterday evening at five thirty. A landline number. It could be from Doëlan. The uncle, perhaps. We’ll find out. And a cell phone number in the morning. Twice, with five minutes in between. At ten oh five and ten ten. And three landline numbers from the mainland, around nine thirty. We’ll look into all of them.”

They were slowly getting a picture of what Provost had done on the final day of his life, even though there were still considerable gaps. If he had arrived in the Doëlan harbor at around six in the evening, then, given his boat was significantly slower than the Bir, he must have set off from the island at around four in the afternoon.

“Do we know where Provost moored his boat?”

“In Sauzon. In the northwest. Where Riwal’s house is.”

“Got it.”

“It’s ten minutes by car from Islonk.”

If they factored in around twenty minutes for the time between parking and casting off, that meant Provost must have left Islonk at around three thirty. So with regard to the morning, this meant: if he had been at home in Islonk during the morning, he would have set off at around eleven forty-five for the “inspection” of his sheep, and arrived back in the hamlet at around twelve thirty, if he hadn’t done anything else. Of course, he could also have been somewhere else until midday.

“What about the dog? That poor creature.”

None of Nolwenn’s other comments about the Provost case had held this much compassion.

“No trace so far. But I’m just about to speak with the neighbor.”

“Un amezeg—a neighbor. Saludin un amezeg! To extend a friendly greeting to a neighbor.” Unbelievable, Nolwenn was even bringing up the Breton course now. “If he hadn’t realized before, it must have become clear to Provost when they took his dog that the threat was serious. Why didn’t he then go to the police?” Nolwenn sounded really agitated. “Just two more things, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Her tone was serious.

“This Sarah Bernhardt expert you’re about to meet.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let yourself be misled. Sarah Bernhardt was a terrible person. Regardless of what she may have achieved and how astonishing it was for the time she lived in. Completely unacceptable. You’re not to be taken in, do you hear me?”

This sounded like a very personal aversion.

“She was a criminal!” Nolwenn continued, really worked up now. “Madame Bernhardt found exotic animals ultra chic … The ‘most renowned actress in the world,’ it’s laughable. On Belle-Île she practically lived in a zoo, with a panther, lion, ape, a boa constrictor, an alligator, a crocodile. When she went out, she always wore a chameleon on her shoulder and was accompanied by multiple fox terriers. Just imagine, at the end of the nineteenth century, when most people were scraping a living as fishermen or farmers. And then Bernhardt with her zoo and her extravagant friends, kings, princesses, whatever.”

“Don’t worry, Nolwenn, I’ll stand my ground.”

“Do you know the crocodile story? One day it ate her favorite fox terrier. So she just picked up her revolver and shot it.”

Nolwenn could rant and rave where animals were concerned.

“And there’s more. She had the crocodile’s head stuffed and hung on the wall in her living room. When guests came, she’d say: ‘Look, that’s my dog’s grave.’”

“And the second thing you wanted to discuss?” He had to bring this to a close.

“The incident on the corniche. Your neighbor is adamant that the police are covering up the murder on the beach so panic doesn’t break out during peak holiday season. And that you and the mayor have conspired on the cover-up. That the thing with Belle-Île is just a distraction tactic.” Dupin could hear her shaking her head down the line. “The world has gone mad, Monsieur le Commissaire. But don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.”

Nolwenn had no issues with taking a stance against the course of the world.

“I need to give Kadeg a call. And the neighbors in Islonk are waiting.”

That was true. The fifteen minutes were up.

“Bye, Nolwenn.”

He hung up.

The rocks in the sea now resembled fantastic sculptures. Figures by Giacometti, Dalí, or Max Ernst. Surreal, elongated, spread-out figures, sometimes thirty or forty meters high, pointed and sharp. Some were close by one another, as though arranged in groups. Some stood alone, like a lighthouse. They looked like figures from legends, myths, fairy tales, dreams, nightmares. Light in color at the top, a pale, almost sparkling slate gray, and intermingled in an inexplicable way were shades of yellow, orange, brown, and some red, then, farther below, the light gray darkened into a deep black, followed once again, as though it were painted on, by a really bright strip. And where the sea had just offered up all the colors it had, here it displayed a uniform tone, an even, deep blue.

There was no one to be seen. Which was surely also down to the heat. People would be seeking the cool of the water. Or dozing in the shadow of cafés. No one in their right mind would venture up here at this time of day, so it was incredibly quiet. Only the gulls could be heard.

Dupin lifted his head and looked around. Once again, for the fraction of a second, he had felt as though he’d seen a shape out of the corner of his eye. A large figure, near to the edge of the cliff. About two hundred meters away. A fata morgana?

He had now reached a poster, which had appeared out of nowhere, mounted on an elaborate aluminum structure. One of Dupin’s countless quirks was his compulsion to read everything: signs, notes, tables. He’d been like that even as a child. He would do whatever it took, recklessly crossing busy streets and making pointless detours, merely to see what was on the notice pinned to the door of a small barbershop.

The table showed the reproduction of a painting, depicting the very view he could see from here: the strange rocks, which both on the picture and in reality looked downright fantastical. But the most astonishing thing was this: around the cliffs on the picture, too, were the white, puzzling symbols. The streaks of sea spray. Beneath the picture it said: Les Pyramides de Port-Coton, mer sauvage—“The rock pyramids of Port-Coton, wild ocean”—1886, Claude Monet. Of course. That was it. Riwal had spoken about it; Monet had painted here in the region. And evidently in this very spot. Les aiguilles de Port-Coton. The “needles.” That was the name of the rocks Monet had captured in various paintings.

Dupin already had his cell phone in his hand, on the brink of calling Kadeg, when its penetrating tone pierced the sublime silence.

An unknown number.

Dupin picked up, turning on his heel and beginning to walk back along the path.

“Yes?”

He noted how abrupt he sounded. Despite the cap, he was getting a headache.

“This is Monette Megret, the mayor of Bangor. I’m furious! One of my nine hundred and ninety-nine citizens has been murdered.”

“The mayor of Bangor?”

Dupin had blurted it out and immediately regretted it. Of course, every commune in France had a mayor. And yet he had presumed tiny Bangor belonged to Le Palais.

“But of course!” Madame le Maire was indignant. “There are four communities on the island. So four mayors. Ever since the revolution. Bangor has had a mayor since 1791. I’m the twenty-fourth.” After a brief pause: “In 1866, at one point, there were one thousand eight hundred sixty-eight inhabitants.”

“Madame le Maire, I…”

“I saw Provost yesterday. Patric Provost. I was at his house in the morning, around ten thirty. For about half an hour.”

She spoke energetically, without punctuation.

“You were?”

“I’m sure you want to speak with me, Monsieur le Commissaire. Which I’m happy to do.”

The mayor seemed to pause, and Dupin reacted at once: “What was the purpose of your visit? What did you talk about?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like there was a path leading right across the plateau directly to Islonk. Which meant he didn’t need to go back along the coastal path he had just taken.

“All manner of things. I’m president of the Association des Acadians, among others. It’s an association of the old Acadian families of the island, who—”

“I’m familiar.” The emphasis on “old Acadian families” and “the Association” sounded a little like a secret club, lodge, or Freemasons, thought Dupin. And the Association did indeed originate from the union of Freemasons. “What precisely was it about?”

“I’d prefer to speak in person.”

Dupin thought for a moment: “How about an hour from now?”

“Let’s say quarter to four. I’ll see you here.”

Of course. The mayor was the one who received guests. It was fine by Dupin; he preferred meeting people in their familiar surroundings. And that gave him another hour and a half from now.

“See you then, Madame le Maire.”

“Au revoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

She hung up.

He was intrigued to find out what she wanted to tell him.

Dupin had guessed right. At the end of the long bay, he could see the houses of Islonk. He swiftly dialed Kadeg’s number. He wanted to find out whether the inspector had already spoken with their colleague in Nantes about the ransom case three years before.

But Kadeg’s number was engaged. Dupin would try again later. For now, the neighbors were waiting for him.

The house of Byn and Margot Fidelin, which they had rented from Provost, was an old, narrow farmhouse. It was constructed from unrendered stone, in bright, warm tones, with a long, even more narrow extension made of the same stone, which presumably used to house the stables. Both buildings were in pristine condition, the roofs tiled in natural slate, the window frames, shutters, and doors painted in the same shade of jade green that could be admired in the sea before the long sand finger. The windows were even smaller than in Provost’s house.

There were large flowerpots in front of the house and extension, tightly huddled together, more than a dozen, planted in a wild, disorganized way. All of them grew luxuriantly, the purest excess. Though it was clear to see that the heat was taxing the plants.

As the crow flies, it was perhaps a hundred and fifty meters to Patric Provost’s house; the two houses formed the exclusive “first row.” Between them lay a scrubby meadow, low-growing brambles, and the access road. The other five houses, viewed from the bay, lay behind on a slight slope. And they were significantly closer to one another. There was a simple wooden sign on the extension, with GOULOU written in black lettering. This was clearly the home of the distillery. And: Le Bar.

Dupin stepped inside. Finally, some shade. That would help his headache. He instantly found himself in an incredibly cozy, almost cool room, the thick stone walls dependably keeping the heat at bay. Ten meters long and five meters wide, Dupin estimated. Diagonally opposite the entrance was an open fire. A couple of small, simple wooden tables, in different sizes. Simple wooden chairs to match. Covering the walls, from the floor to the ceiling, were old black-and-white photographs. The pictures showed landscapes, the ocean, boats, family holidays, first days at school, summer holidays, and always: the Belle-Île. Some of the photos seemed to have been taken in the setting Dupin found himself in right now. And from a sandbank. Dupin recognized the panorama at once: the bay behind Islonk, the long sand finger. It must be the famous sandbank of Goulou Tenom Burlot had mentioned. Dupin looked through the open door into the garden.

“Bonjour, can I help you?”

A man, roughly sixty years of age, was standing behind the counter. Byn Fidelin, Dupin presumed. A marked propensity toward corpulence and an equally marked receding hairline; sparse, short black hair; a bushy mustache. Burly, but in a likable way. Dupin, upon spotting an impressive coffee machine on a sideboard behind the counter, couldn’t help but grin.

“I’m the commissaire. Georges Dupin. Bonjour.”

The man smiled at Dupin.

With the cap, his windswept, currently rather long hair—which, because of the salt water, looked even more disheveled than usual—the well-worn polo shirt, equally well-worn jeans, and sunburned face, Dupin knew he didn’t give off the classical image of a commissaire.

“Commissariat de Police de Concarneau,” Dupin added, just to clarify. And, by way of proof, he took off his cap.

“Understood.”

The man continued to smile in a very friendly manner.

“They’re all outside.” He nodded his head toward the door. “I’m just getting two cafés for your colleagues.”

“I’ll have two as well.”

A questioning glance.

“Both for me.”

“Understood.” The man nodded like an accomplice. “I drink more coffee than I should, too. I can’t help it.”

There was no quicker way of bonding with Dupin.

“I’m the—”

“Monsieur le Commissaire!” Dupin was briskly interrupted. Kadeg had rushed into the room, making quite an entrance.

“I need you, boss, it’s important.”

With Kadeg, everything was always important, fundamentally because he, Kadeg, was concerned with it. The inspector headed back toward the door he had just come through. Dupin followed.

“I’ve now spoken with several of our colleagues in Nantes”—Kadeg wasn’t yet even completely outside when he struck up a brisk reporting tone—“and in Rennes. First, of course, with the relevant commissaire in Nantes. All the clues back then led to Nantes and its immediate surroundings. But as you know, they all came to nothing. To this day, the police have no idea who the perpetrator or perpetrators might be.”

“Was that it?”

Dupin had paused before the door.

“It doesn’t mean anything, of course. It could still be one and the same perpetrator.”

Which only meant: they were just as clueless as before.

“I still don’t think we can rule it out,” Kadeg continued. “The wording of the threatening letters is, generally speaking, similar.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“I’ve had them read out to me.”

“I want to see the letters.”

“Of course. I’ll also find out whether the wording was made public back then.”

A smart move. It could be imitated only if it was known.

The inspector had already disappeared.

Dupin went back into the bar a second time, only to leave again a moment later—there was no one behind the counter anymore.

He came to an abrupt halt.

It was breathtaking: the landscape, the panorama, the view of the bay. The flair of the small terrace with its weather-worn concrete floor, toward the back the stone façade of the extension, to the left, the main house. Through their slightly set-apart location, the two houses created a perfectly protected corner. And above all: atmosphere. If Dupin could have envisaged the perfect bar, the house, the location, the mood, the charm, it would have come out more or less like the Goulou.

A large umbrella in a yellow that shone as intensely as the sun provided refreshing shade. On the rear terrace stood the same big flowerpots as at the front, here full of herbs and lilac-blossoming lavender. A bustling swarm of countless bees could be seen amid hundreds of the flowers. Even the lavender showed signs of the long dry spell; more than a few stems slumped tiredly. The sage, rosemary, thyme, and peppermint were just as thirsty for water. And yet you could still smell them. Especially now, in the still air, the aromas mixed in a beguiling way. A small meadow stretched out in front of the terrace; to the side, behind two particularly large flowerpots, a beautiful light-blue wooden boat with an outboard motor rested on a trailer.

“Salut, boss.” Riwal had a petit café in his hand, as did Cosqueric. The two of them were sitting next to each other, with Le Menn alongside.

So here it was, the legendary bench. To be accurate, there were two. Painted in the same jade green as the window shutters and arranged in a corner, directly against the walls of the buildings, so that you could comfortably lean against them. Sitting on one of the two benches, smiling at Dupin, was the man who had just been behind the counter. Next to him sat a significantly younger woman, presumably the owner, Margot Fidelin, and next to her was another woman. Dupin guessed she was in her mid or late sixties, probably the retired teacher. Right at the end of the bench sat a fourth person, a woman of around fifty, who, if Dupin’s guess was correct, must be Patric Provost’s ex-wife.

“Mesdames, monsieur.” Dupin nodded to them. “Thank you for making the time. We urgently need your help. You know about the murder of your neighbor, Patric Provost. We’ve just found out he was being blackmailed. The perpetrator wanted a million euros from him, otherwise, according to the threat, he would be killed. This is the situation as it stands.”

They had kept a seat at the right-hand end of the bench free for Dupin. It was also marked by two petit cafés. Everyone was sitting in such a way that there was ample room for a glass or coffee cup next to or between them. As though one spent the evening here, regardless of when it began, with a glass of whisky. One thing was instantly clear to Dupin: it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. This, right here, was his place. Ar baradoz, paradise. Simply put, even in Breton. It didn’t get better than this. These were the kinds of places he loved. Unforced, unspoiled, down-to-earth. It felt private, like being in someone’s house. With friends. For the investigation in progress it meant: whenever he could, he would investigate from here.

“I’m Micheline Corbel, former elementary school teacher. I retired last year. International Sarah Bernhardt expert.”

Dupin had guessed right. It was the woman Nolwenn had warned him about.

The retired teacher immediately took on the role of spokeswoman: “And these,” she gestured toward the group, “are the dead man’s other neighbors—”

“The murdered man,” Le Menn curtly interrupted.

“Monsieur and Madame Fidelin”—she ignored Le Menn’s interjection as though she hadn’t heard it—“and Madame Griffon. The only one missing is Monsieur Zinc, the captain. You’ve already met Monsieur Burlot, the sheep farmer.”

The small, robust-looking woman had a healthy complexion, sparkling eyes, and seemed to be a jovial, dynamic person. Her curly black hair was pinned up, though a few rebellious strands fell across her face. She was wearing an unbelievably old-fashioned, provocatively colorful floral dress, quite an assault on the eye. The image she gave off had a touch of the antique, the poetic, which admittedly didn’t fit at all with her entirely unpoetic manner. A governess nature would be more fitting; for Madame Corbel, it was clearly natural that she should take the reins. Also audible was a certain haughtiness, a disapproval of the forced conversation that she clearly considered superfluous, along with the desire to put it behind her as swiftly as possible.

“Are you intending”—Madame Corbel clearly didn’t plan to let anyone else get a word in—“to speak to us all together? I think that’s a crackpot idea, but fine, it’s your investigation. To hurry things along: none of us can imagine who might have blackmailed and murdered Monsieur Provost. It’s simply absurd! And none of us have noticed anything suspicious. Not yesterday, not the day before yesterday, not in the last week, not at all. Naturally we’ve already spoken about it. But, of course, you are free to listen to us say that in one-on-one conversations as well. For my part, to make it immediately clear: I certainly had my discord with Monsieur Provost. I’d even go so far as to say, and I won’t sugarcoat it, that I would certainly have killed him if it didn’t mean going to prison for it.” She was trying to sit as upright as she could. Next to her was an empty cup of coffee. “In my case, by the way, it’s nothing personal. It’s a general matter of the highest importance, regarding Sarah Bernhardt, the greatest actress of all time. She came here in 1894, when she was fifty, and found her ‘paradise,’ as she called it, the ‘most beautiful place on Earth.’ And she remained here until 1922. Up at the Pointe des Poulains. Oh yes”—now her tone became even more dramatic—“of course she was eccentric! Obstinate, quick-tempered, choleric. A true bohemian! A world star. But she was also incredibly lovable.”

Dupin would love to bring her together with Nolwenn for an exchange of opinions. He had used Corbel’s presentation in order to drink his first, excellent petit café.

“She was very empathetic, in spite of her fame. Sarah always did her best to help others! During the First World War she visited French soldiers on the front, even though she had lost a leg. Marilyn Monroe was merely copying when she did it later. In 1915 she went to the USA in order to convince the president to enter the war. Which, although it took a while longer, she was successful in doing.” Corbel was clearly following her own unique interpretation of history.

“This ‘discord’ you spoke of, madame”—Dupin came back to the only point that interested him—“what exactly did you mean by that?”

“To us Bellilois she was the Bonne Dame de Penhoët. She financed a cooperative bakery and imported exquisite plants to the island. Along with many illustrious individuals of the time, such as King Edward VII, who, like hundreds of others, came to her legendary parties. The whole world was a guest on Belle-Île. She—”

“Madame, the discord.” This was enough for Dupin. He had let her talk for long enough to be able to drink his second café. He had urgently needed it; he was struggling with the heat. Pearls of sweat had formed on his brow.

Madame Corbel gave Dupin a penetrating stare. “Well then. Among other things, I take care of the house Sarah Bernhardt used to live in, which is now the museum, an old military fort. We want to build a large Sarah Bernhardt center on the land behind the fort. The fort is far too small, it’s laughable really, an embarrassment. The new center would house a research institute and an archive. Regrettably, the land belonged to Provost, and he didn’t want to relinquish it. We were planning to force his hand, the state can do that in exceptional situations, if it’s for the common good. And it quite clearly is. Et voilà, there you go, my discord with that primitive ignoramus.”

Her contempt was clearly audible.

“The project has been under discussion for some time.” Riwal made use of the pause. “I just didn’t realize Provost was involved.”

The inspector seemed to feel personally culpable if he wasn’t aware of something that was happening on Belle-Île.

“Did you file a lawsuit against him?” Dupin asked.

“We’re in the process of preparing it. There is, after all, an incredibly compelling reason for the land expropriation—to serve the public interest. It’s the same with the construction of roads or railways!” She flared with anger. “He didn’t even want to rent or lease us the land! And you know what?” She smiled diabolically. “He didn’t even have a proper reason not to give us the meadow. His stupid sheep! Don’t make me laugh. It was pure sadism. It always was with him. The pleasure he took in destroying other people’s plans and dreams. In opposing things that meant something to others. In this case: to all of humanity. That was his only motive! Nothing else! But fine, it’s over now.”

“Do you know who will inherit Provost’s assets, including this meadow, madame?”

“How would I know that? But whoever it is, I’m sure they would immediately understand our cause. I reckon we’ll be able to start building soon.”

“Madame, it wasn’t just murder, there was also a high ransom demand. Monsieur Provost was blackmailed. Do you have any thoughts on that?”

She looked at Dupin with consternation.

“Well, first of all, why do you think I in particular would have any thoughts? What about your thoughts, young man?”

“Where were you yesterday evening and this morning, madame?” A good counter from Le Menn. “Until, let’s say, nine or ten A.M.?”

Dupin had expected a hysterical reaction. But Corbel’s response was surprisingly matter-of-fact: “Yesterday I was at the museum until seven in the evening. I was asked to do two tours. After that, I ran some errands in Sauzon, which is on my way. Later I was at home, and I dropped in here for a nightcap. Until midnight, roughly. This morning I had my first tour at eleven, and set off at around a quarter to. Speaking of which”—she stood up and paused in front of the bench—“now I really need to go. I’ve got a meeting with Sarah at half past three.”

“Is there somebody who can confirm all of that, particularly with regards to this morning?” Le Menn persisted, undeterred.

By now Dupin had made a rough calculation of how much time a person would need to get from Belle-Île to Doëlan on a standard motorboat; and how much time to commit the murder itself. Two hours for the journey, and perhaps a half hour for the act itself. If the perpetrator had set out from Belle-Île and returned here afterward, and the murder had been committed between six and seven in the morning, he or she would have needed to leave the island between three thirty and four thirty at night. And—again assuming the act had been committed at around six o’clock—they would have been back on the island shortly after eight at the earliest. Depending on where their boat was and where the perpetrator needed to go—for example, here to Islonk—they would have needed approximately another fifteen minutes to get back here. So, a quarter past eight.

“Are you joking?” She snorted; the tinge of matter-of-factness now long gone. “I live alone.” She raised her head proudly, at which a few more strands of hair came loose and fell across her face.

“Were there any telephone calls, preferably from your landline, which could prove that?”

“No, there aren’t.”

This whole time, Dupin had been having considerable difficulty picturing Madame Corbel as a teacher. Those poor children, he thought. How fortunate that she was now retired. She turned to head off. “If you would excuse me. You know how to reach me.”

Dupin glanced at Riwal, who nodded in agreement. “I’ll send you the list with all the numbers, boss.” Dupin wasn’t put out by Madame Corbel’s departure; this was clearly the only way he would have the opportunity to speak with the other neighbors.

“We’ll be in touch, madame. Just one last question.” It had only just occurred to Dupin. With visible reluctance, Madame Corbel turned around one more time. “A question to all of you.” Dupin looked around at the group. “When did you last see Louis, Patric Provost’s dog?”

“Not for a long while, and to be honest I’m pretty happy about that,” came the prompt answer from Madame Corbel. “He barks too much.”

“What do you mean by ‘a long while’?” Le Menn probed.

“I didn’t exactly count the days. But certainly not for the past week. How about all of you?”

She looked at the group.

“We haven’t either,” Margot Fidelin agreed.

“I hadn’t noticed,” declared Madame Griffon, Provost’s ex-wife, who so far hadn’t made a sound. “But yes, it’s true. I haven’t seen him for quite a while.”

“A week,” confirmed Margot Fidelin, “that must be about right.”

“There, you see! That’s what I said. And now I’m going.” Micheline Corbel took her leave with a theatrical gesture.

Dupin waited for a brief moment, then turned to Madame Griffon. “Madame, I’d like to know—”

All of a sudden, Riwal stood up.

“I just thought of something, boss, sorry. Back in a moment.”

He hurried onto the meadow in front of the terrace, his cell phone to his ear.

“Unfortunately I need to go soon too, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Agnès Griffon had shifted along toward Byn and Margot after Micheline Corbel’s departure. She spoke in a bright, calm voice. Agnès was a petite woman with soft features, minimal makeup, and unremarkable, chin-length dark-blond hair. She was wearing functional dark-blue cloth pants and a matching polo shirt with the inscription: Equipe Technique—Belle-Île. “We have a lot to do today, unfortunately. I dashed straight out of work when your colleague called.”

Her words held no hint of accusation.

“It won’t take long, madame. Do you have any thoughts on the case? About who might have blackmailed and murdered your ex-husband?”

She looked at Dupin earnestly.

“It’s terrible.” All at once she looked incredibly upset, and took a deep breath. “We had our history, and yes, things didn’t end well. That’s all a very long time ago. Patric was, to be honest, a terrible person in many ways. But, of course, I wouldn’t wish this on him. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“Who could have done something like this to him, madame?” asked Dupin.

“I don’t know. I have absolutely no idea. The islanders who knew him know he was wealthy, but not the full extent. No one knew how big his fortune really was, I don’t think. Especially with the current property values. In all likelihood, only the people at the bank knew.”

Dupin made a note.

“And on the mainland, very few people knew him. I mean, he always kept a very low profile even here on the island.”

“What was the nature of your relationship with Monsieur Provost in recent years, madame? In recent months?” Le Menn, who had been fidgeting impatiently on the bench the whole time, asked in her direct manner. “Did you have conflicts? About money? About the house you live in?”

“I…” Madame Griffon broke off.

Margot Fidelin reacted promptly and stood up.

“We’ll leave you alone. I need to make a call anyway.” She signaled to her husband, who stood up too. Agnès Griffon didn’t comment, but seemed to be in agreement, as was Dupin.

“We’ll be next door,” added Margot Fidelin, “in the distillery.”

They disappeared through the door to the bar.

Now they were alone with Provost’s ex-wife. “Okay, so…” Dupin prompted, intrigued.

“Boss!” Riwal interrupted. Out of breath, he came to a halt next to Dupin. “I’ve just been on the phone with the sheep farmer. Tenom Burlot. He did get baguettes from Le Palais this morning.”

All gazes turned curiously to the inspector.

“And?” Dupin didn’t have the faintest idea what Riwal was getting at.

“Burlot also bought baguettes for a few of his neighbors, he said. I just asked him who. Today, for the Fidelins and Madame Corbel. As usual, he dropped them off directly. At around seven forty-five. He handed them personally to Madame Corbel and the Fidelins. So there’s proof of Madame Corbel’s alibi. She was home at seven forty-five. And so were the Fidelins, Burlot saw both Madame and Monsieur Fidelin.”

“Very good.” Dupin nodded to Riwal, who sat back down on the bench.

That clarified a few things. And reduced their workload.

“I was already on my way to one of our reservoirs at that time,” Madame Griffon informed them soberly. “I got there around eight and met two colleagues. You’re welcome to check that.”

“The island’s water supply is provided by our small reservoirs,” Riwal explained to Dupin.

“You were about to tell us something else, something quite personal, I presume, madame.” Dupin returned to the previous matter, which surely hadn’t been about Agnès Griffon’s—completely solid—alibi. “It’s just us now.”

Madame Griffon came straight to the point: “Officially, we were still married, Patric and I, even though we’ve been separated for twenty years and no longer have anything to do with each other. I was planning to change that, finally. In January, I asked him for a divorce.”

This kind of thing, despite a definitive separation, was quite common, Dupin knew that. And yet it was the second significant surprise regarding Provost’s life. And on this, too, no one had said a word; but perhaps no one else had known about it.

“I’ve been in a relationship with a man from Vannes for the last three years, and we’re planning to marry. We want to move in together, here on the island.” She spoke calmly. “I would never leave it.” Without a doubt, this was a mantra of the Bellilois.

“Did Provost agree to the divorce?”

An increasing number of interesting constellations were opening up.

“He hired a lawyer. So did I. All communication has been through them ever since.” She outlined the situation without any noticeable emotion. “Of course, Patric wants—wanted—to pay practically nothing. I know him. That’s what he’s like. But the lawyers were supposed to reach an agreement. We spoke in person just once—when I told him. In January. I visited him at home one evening.”

“How did he react?”

“He shrugged and said: ‘Fine.’ That was all.”

“Is there a prenup?”

“No.”

“So what are the lawyers negotiating?” Riwal asked. “What are the discussion points?”

“Well, the money. What he’s giving me.”

“So did you ask for a particular amount?” Le Menn asked.

“A million. It’s not that high a sum for him. My lawyer and I estimate his fortune, inclusive of the land and property, to be around fifteen to eighteen million. We prepared an itemization, so the number wasn’t just plucked out of thin air.”

“How did he react?” Le Menn pressed.

“His lawyer offered five hundred thousand.”

“And how did you plan to proceed, madame?”

“What do you think? It would have been brought to court, that’s the standard process. And the judge would have decided. My lawyer thinks it’s very possible the court would order him to pay me even more.”

“And now? Will you inherit? Perhaps everything.” Le Menn was merely voicing what hung in the air. “Given you’re still his wife?”

Agnès Griffon evidently had an alibi, but she could have had an accomplice.

“No. He made a will back when we separated. I know that for a fact. Even though I don’t know its contents. He said he was even withdrawing my statutory share. Actually, he can’t do that. My lawyer is sure he won’t get away with it.”

“Didn’t you take any action back then?” Riwal followed up.

“When we separated, I didn’t care. We agreed I would carry on living in the house here, which had become vacant at the time, and that I would get fifteen hundred euros a month. After three years, he simply discontinued the payments. But by then I had my own income, which I much preferred in any case.”

“And he didn’t tell you anything more precise about the will? About who he was leaving his estate to?”

“No. I don’t know anything about that.”

“The statutory share amounts to at least a quarter of the inheritance, madame,” Le Menn interjected, “which in your case would be a considerable sum. You realize that, right?”

“I know.” Madame Griffon retained her commanding tone.

“Even if, in his will,” Le Menn stated more precisely, “he expressly formulated a wish to exclude you, his spouse, someone entitled to a compulsory share, the law usually corrects this in favor of the recipient. Unless,” she paused, “he was able to cite compelling reasons. If you, Madame Griffon, were found guilty of a serious crime, like a murder attempt on the bequeather, for example.”

Dupin almost grinned. A rhetorical masterstroke.

“That’s pretty much how my lawyer described it too.”

For a while, there was silence.

Agnès Griffon clearly had nothing more to say on the matter.

“Why didn’t you want a divorce sooner?” Riwal now took up the questioning.

“I did, actually. But at the same time, I wanted nothing to do with the whole thing. Not with any of it, and especially not with him. I didn’t have the energy for the arguments, less and less so as time passed. I don’t know if you understand what I mean. I mean, I didn’t have any contact with him at all. Even though we both lived here.”

“In any case, the compulsory share would be much higher than the million you requested,” Le Menn summarized once more, coolly.

Madame Griffon nodded. She didn’t seem to take offense at Le Menn’s persistence.

“As I said, I have to go now. I’m sorry, but I really need to.” Agnès Griffon stood up. “Because of the heat and drought, drinking water is becoming a really critical issue on the island.”

“Could you give us the contact details of the colleagues you met this morning at eight at the reservoir?” Riwal hadn’t forgotten.

“Of course. I’ll send them to you.”

A polite smile appeared on her face.

“Just one more question, madame.” Dupin stood up too. “Do you know the menhir researcher who just rented Provost’s vacant house?”

Dupin had been meaning to ask the others about him.

“No. But I see him from time to time. He’s quite a loner. I haven’t exchanged a single word with him yet.”

Riwal and Le Menn had now stood up too.

“Do you know his name?”

“Manuel Trotter.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Three weeks, perhaps.”

“Doesn’t he ever come here, to Goulou?”

Dupin would be here every night.

“No. I don’t think he’s been here at all. But ask Byn and Margot.”

“That’s all for now. Au revoir, madame.”

“Au revoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Agnès Griffon disappeared through the door to the bar.

Now they were alone. Le Menn, Riwal, Cosqueric, and Dupin.

“Riwal”—the thought had just popped into Dupin’s head—“what kind of boat would you need to do the trip between Doëlan and Belle-Île in significantly less than two hours?”

“A proper speedboat. With extremely strong engines. Like the Bir. None of your average motorboats could do it. Most of the boats here on the coast are cruiser types, with more or less the same top speed.”

“I’ll ask around in the harbor”—the island commander, who had been astonishingly silent, now spoke up—“about how many of these speedboats are registered on the island, if any. The harbormasters will know that kind of thing.”

“Sounds good. When does the first ferry from the mainland arrive in the mornings?”

“The first leaves Quiberon at seven fifteen A.M. and is here around eight fifteen.”

“Right. Then that rules out the ferries. Riwal and Le Menn, speak to Nolwenn again about the will. We have to find out what’s in it. Who the inheritance is going to. Without delay.”

It was quite possibly the most important matter right now.

“We’re on it, boss.”

“And once we have it, we’ll need an expert to evaluate it. Because of the compulsory share—to find out whether Agnès Griffon will definitely get it.”

“Of course.”

“By the way, the mayor of Bangor got in touch. She wants to talk to me. She saw Provost yesterday, but she didn’t want to say on the phone what it was about.”

It wasn’t long now until the meeting; he would have to hurry.

“She’s my sister’s sister-in-law, boss, Monette Megret, the mayor of Bangor.”

Dupin had been expecting as much: that with the doubtlessly multi-branched relationships and family relationships on Belle-Île, he would soon encounter the Riwal clan.

“And I’ve already called my sister, of course. She says Megret is a woman of integrity, and that she’s doing a great job.”

“Anything else? Did your sister or her husband think of anything else?”

This could be valuable.

“No, regrettably not.”

Once again, it was noticeable how irritated Riwal was by this. He seemed to feel as though he wasn’t living up to expectations as the island expert.

“Right. Then I’ll go speak to the Fidelins now.” Heading off, he turned around to the commander: “Cosqueric, make a list of which of the neighbors and people we’re speaking to currently own their own boat. And which model. And where it is.”

It wasn’t easy for Dupin to leave the beautiful terrace. Especially because the heat had now become almost unbearable.

An incredibly narrow door led from the bar into a peculiar world of brilliantly polished copper and eccentric apparatus in fantastical shapes: wall-high, round containers with glass peepholes like bull’s-eyes; here and there, displays like a dashboard, markings, numbers, unknown units. Copper pipes ran this way and that between the containers. There were also large levers, in red and blue; and bolted holes in yellow. Dupin spotted a lid on one of the containers that looked like the escape hatch of a U-boat, with a stainless-steel flywheel fixed to the outside. But the most spectacular thing was a huge copper balloon on a tall container—like a crystal ball. On the floor in front of it stood a few pots made of glittering stainless steel. There was a wooden shelf on the wall above the apparatus, stacked with bottles that looked like medicine vials from old apothecaries.

The alchemist-like laboratory took up a good half of the room. Barrels were stored in the other half. Wonderful, antique wooden barrels, piled up to the ceiling, their sides painted bright red, inscribed with cryptic messages. “CH3 CH2 OH, 63%, July 2, 2013.” Others were easily comprehensible: Port, Madeira, Bourbon, Sherry, Menetou-Salon. Without a doubt, something utterly exquisite was being produced here. Gold, at the very least. In liquid form. A magical elixir. And it lay in the air; you could breathe, smell, taste it. Slightly sweet, like honey, caramelly. Blossoming flowers. And malt. There was a saltiness too.

“Are you one of us? Un amateur de whisky? An enthusiast?”

Byn Fidelin had noticed Dupin’s awed gaze.

“I…” What should he say? “Definitely.”

It was true, even though Dupin didn’t drink whisky that often. In truth, the only reason he didn’t drink it often was because there are so many other good things to drink. Captivated by the honey and caramel aromas, he resolved to change this.

Fidelin strode toward him, his steps heavy but leisurely. Margot Fidelin now appeared too, behind the barrels, with a notepad in her hand. Dupin saw a wooden door that led into the garden.

“Whisky belongs to us Celts like the sun does to life,” boomed Fidelin, “not just in Scotland, but everywhere we live. Ireland, Cornwall, Wales, the Isle of Man, Brittany. The six Celtic nations.” His eyes gleamed like those of a happy child. “Goulou is Celtic, it means ‘light.’ George Bernard Shaw called whisky ‘liquid sunlight.’”

Only now did Dupin see that Byn Fidelin was holding a glass with a long stem; it looked slightly like a small wineglass.

“Les Six Reines de Belle-Île—this sunlight here is almost ready. Try it.”

“No, thank you.” Dupin declined, heavyhearted.

Madame Fidelin had put the notepad aside and came to join them.

“And—do you have any thoughts on all of this?”

Margot Fidelin, with flaxen, short hair, a little tomboyish, wearing a long, loose, dark-blue linen summer dress, took charge of the response. “The perpetrator must have known how wealthy Patric Provost was. That must reduce the circle of perpetrators, right?”

She was right.

“And this circle, what does it look like?”

“Us, I mean those of us in Islonk, the mayor of Bangor, the committee members, his sheep farmers, his bank advisers, the Acadians…” She broke off. “Hmm. Maybe there are quite a few, after all.” She corrected her own optimism. “And they themselves know many others…”

“Are you thinking of someone in particular from the circle?”

“No, not at all.”

She sounded genuine.

“And you, Monsieur Fidelin?”

Still holding the glass in his hand, Byn gently shook his head. “No.”

“Do you both belong to the Acadians too?”

“My family does, but my husband’s doesn’t.”

“Then you’re also a member of the association?”

“I’m one of the presidential members. There are six vice presidents.”

“Does anyone else from the hamlet belong to it?”

“Albert Zinc. He’s part of an old captain family and incredibly wealthy. One of his forefathers brought the Acadians here from Canada long ago.”

“No one else?”

“No.”

“Your house belongs to Provost. What was your relationship with him like?”

Once again, the commissaire was talking to both of them, and again it was Madame Fidelin who answered.

“Not good. It used to be okay, albeit never friendly. But that changed over recent years. We would’ve liked to buy the house from Provost. But he didn’t want that. Nor did he want us to extend it the way we planned to. We’d like to expand our business, the distillery. And I’d like to do my manufacturing here. That’s another reason we need more space.”

“Your manufacturing?”

Margot Fidelin seemed a little peeved at the question.

“I make ceramics. And glass. Whisky glasses. But vases too, for example. I’m currently renting a space in Le Palais, next to Fluïd. It’s not exactly convenient for me.”

Damn. Dupin couldn’t let himself forget about Fluïd. The colorful glasses. He remembered that Claire had sent him a text message about the colors.

“What were Provost’s reasons for refusing the extension?”

There was no end to it; everyone seemed to have had their own quarrel with him.

“He enjoyed putting up obstacles. Causing problems.”

It was a strange case; everything about it had been strange so far. Usually, after a murder, everyone told them the victim had been well liked by all concerned and that there’d been neither enemies nor serious conflicts. Possible motives were rare, if they even existed. But here, everyone had a motive. And no one was concealing it. Patric Provost seemed to have sabotaged the fulfillment of everyone’s plans and dreams.

“The stupid thing is that we couldn’t do a thing about it. We were utterly dependent on him, on his goodwill. But goodwill was an unfamiliar concept to him.”

“Do you own a boat?”

“Only the blue outboard motorboat in the garden. Byn fishes.” She looked over at her husband.

“Who here in Islonk owns a larger boat?”

“The captain. And Agnès.”

“Provost’s ex-wife?”

“She loves engines. Cars, boats, planes.”

“She flies?”

“Two-seaters. We have an Aéro-Club here on the island. You must’ve passed it on your way here.”

“And what kind of boats are they? The captain’s and Madame Griffon’s? Are they motorboats?”

“Yes. Both around eight or nine meters. Agnès’s is rather old. It used to belong to Provost.”

“And the captain’s?”

Dupin remembered he needed to meet him as well.

“It’s almost new. Just two years old. He’s also an avid fisher and goes quite far out to sea. Overnight too.”

“Does it have a strong engine?”

Madame Fidelin looked at her husband.

“I think,” said Byn Fidelin in his rumbling voice, “twin one hundred horsepower.”

Dupin made a note. Riwal would be a better judge, but it didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary, nor like a speedboat.

“Where are Madame Griffon’s and Captain Zinc’s boats moored?”

“Agnès’s is in Locmaria harbor, and the captain’s in Sauzon. They…”

Dupin’s cell phone rang.

Nolwenn.

“Just a moment, I’ll be back.” Dupin began to walk off.

“Yes?” He picked up before he had stepped out of the door.

“Petra nevez, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Nolwenn, this isn’t the time…”

“But you know the expression by now! What’s the latest? There’s something more important I need to tell you, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

As though he had already started to speak.

“I know who Provost left his entire fortune to. Guess!”

A purely rhetorical request.

“The island!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Belle-Île. Or to be more precise: the mayor of Bangor.”

“What?”

Dupin was stunned.

“She’s the director responsible for the Smart Island Initiative. A wonderful project. Zero emissions!”

Riwal had spoken about it, Dupin remembered.

“I’m a member of the committee myself. And I think you should become one too, Monsieur le Commissaire, Belle-Île is the Breton pioneer for green energy. You—”

“I’m familiar with the project.”

Nolwenn was a staunch ecologist and a member of dozens of initiatives. Dupin was very supportive of that, and of her energetic conviction. But not right now.

“Then you must also know that the construction of three gigantic offshore windmills is imminent. In any case, they’ll be receiving his entire fortune.”

Dupin wanted to make sure he had correctly understood: “Patric Provost left everything he owned to this initiative, and the mayor of Bangor, who I’m about to meet, is its chairwoman?”

“Correct.”

This was remarkable news. And for a change, it didn’t fit the image of the loathsome misanthrope.

“Provost’s notary sent me a copy of the will, in which it also says his ex-wife, or rather, wife, should be excluded from receiving her statutory share. A provision which the notary himself regards as untenable. He says Agnès Griffon is entitled to at least twenty-five percent, something he apparently repeatedly pointed out to Provost in no uncertain terms. But it seems he didn’t take any notice of that, and worded the relevant passages himself.”

“This means that, in all likelihood, Griffon will inherit as well.”

“With what the notary estimates to be a current net worth of around nineteen million, that makes her share around four point seven five million. Nèus ket da glemm—it’s not to be sniffed at.”

The fortune seemed even larger than Agnès Griffon and her lawyer had estimated.

“Did Provost tell the notary why he wanted to give this project so much support?”

“Provost was probably keen to make the island as independent from the mainland as possible. He voiced that explicitly. The notary said Provost seemed less concerned with the people or the environment than he was with the island. His island. But that was all he said to the notary. It seems they only discussed it once.”

It was very odd. Both the case, and Provost. But consistent, too, because in a way it did fit: he didn’t care about people.

“Did the mayor know about this provision in his will?”

“Yes. She’s known for two years. He decreed it shortly before that.”

“Did anyone else know?”

These were the vital, perhaps make-or-break questions.

“No. At least, Provost didn’t want anyone to find out while he was still alive. He only told the mayor about it under the caveat of the strictest confidentiality. That was even written into the will. You’ll be meeting Madame Megret shortly, of course.”

Precisely. He would have to leave this paradise now, despite his hope for another quick café on the terrace. But it was already too late; he had to set off immediately. The mayor was the most interesting person to talk to right now. It seemed she, or rather, her initiative, were the major beneficiaries in this murder case.

“Has Madame Corbel already told you the boa story, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“The boa story?”

Nolwenn flew into a rage again. “Another horrible Bernhardt anecdote: it seems the diva liked to sit on her sofa and read in the evenings, and, one of her affectations, she would put her feet up on her huge boa, which she kept as a pet. One day the boa devoured one of her sofa cushions, which were made from the finest Chinese silk. You can imagine what happened next: Bernhardt shot the poor creature.”

Dupin had no idea how to respond.

“She should have gone to prison for that alone, don’t you think, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

It sounded as though she expected Dupin to make a posthumous arrest.

“You’re absolutely right.” It was probably better to take a conclusive stance.

“And do you know what it was usually fed? The boa?” Nolwenn inserted a dramatic pause. “Piglets! Once a week, it was given a piglet, which it then devoured and slowly digested over the subsequent days.”

“The mayor, Nolwenn, I…”

“And do you know who adores her, absolutely worships her? This Bernhardt woman?”

Once again, she didn’t wait for an answer.

“The prefect! Locmariaquer! I mean, how fitting. Ken emberr, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

She hung up.

The prefect. Dupin had completely forgotten about him. And for the best of all possible reasons: because, on this case, he didn’t have to think about him. Nobody had to. The prefect, a gourmand and gourmet, had suffered considerable health problems in recent years as a result of his severe obesity. This had also had a direct impact on Dupin. Although the choleric prefect had already suffered from high blood pressure, it had worsened dramatically as his weight increased. And the prefect, in turn, had become even more bad-tempered. An unfortunate vicious circle, and especially for those around him. Evidently also for his wife, because she had intervened and, after all, the outpatient diet attempts had failed, prescribed an inpatient diet for her husband. Or, as it was officially called: a weight loss retreat, removed from everyday life and its insidious culinary routines, temptations, and rituals. And so Locmariaquer was now enrolled on a two-week “healthy weight-loss program” in a “medical spa hotel” near Rennes, in the countryside, in the middle of nowhere. With lots of exercise, a calorie counter, and a nutritional course. Even the date of Dupin’s anniversary celebration was thanks to this retreat; Nolwenn had only set it in stone once it became clear that the prefect—regrettably, and Dupin had repeatedly expressed this regret to Locmariaquer in person—would definitely not be able to take part.

Dupin had left Islonk and was driving toward Bangor, which was three or four kilometers away at most. After just a few minutes, he already felt as though he was driving through the deepest Breton interior, the real campagne, the Argoat, fields to the right and left. Bales of hay lay everywhere; you could see and smell them. He had only just said good-bye to the Fidelins. Though he would have liked to continue the conversation, there would be opportunity enough later. After his meeting with the mayor, he would head back to Islonk. Riwal was trying to arrange a meeting with the captain. And with the menhir researcher, Manuel Trotter.

“I’m running a little late, Madame le Maire”—he had called the mayor from the car—“but I’m on my way.”

“I have to leave in five minutes, Monsieur le Commissaire, for a meeting I can’t postpone.”

Her disclosure was friendly, but unapologetic.

“When will you be back, madame?”

Dupin was the one who hadn’t kept to their arranged appointment, but regardless, he couldn’t wait long.

“Oh, it will take three or four hours for sure. Until eight, perhaps. The appointment has been set for ages. And after that I have another meeting. At eight thirty. Which I’m leading. I would—”

“What kind of appointment is it that you need to attend so urgently? What’s it about?”

A longer pause. She seemed to be contemplating whether or not she should offer the information.

“In a way,” she sounded a little snappish, “it’s connected with Monsieur Provost. It has to do with a major project, Monsieur le Commissaire. With gigantic offshore wind turbines. I was planning to tell you about it. The thing is, Monsieur Provost—”

“We already know about the will.”

“You do?”

“I have to speak to you before your appointment, madame. This is a murder case, after all. And I’d like to know why Monsieur Provost left his entire fortune to your initiative.”

Dupin steered around a bend and floored the gas pedal, prompting the engine to make a ludicrous racket.

“As you wish, Monsieur le Commissaire. Then I’ll see you in five minutes at the airfield. It’s not far from Bangor.”

Without waiting for his reaction, she hung up.

The commissaire braked sharply and came to a standstill at the side of the road. He had just driven past the airfield.

Cursing, he turned the car around.

Soon the sign appeared: Aérodrome Bangor. The airfield. Two white stone houses. On the smaller of them was a sign: Aéro-Club. The larger building revealed itself to be the Aéro-Bar. Alongside the two stone houses were long barracks, and behind them, the modest runway. It all seemed like it had been plonked down haphazardly on a large meadow with tall grass and wildflowers, next to a freshly cut field with bales of hay. A wire mesh fence that had seen better days encircled the airfield. Next to the runway were a good dozen snow-white airplanes, parked neatly alongside one another.

Now he saw the entrance, and in front of it, to the right-hand side, a parking lot containing numerous vehicles. A man and woman were talking next to a smart Renault. Dupin steered toward the vacant space alongside it. He suddenly recognized Agnès Griffon. Provost’s ex-wife. What was she doing here?

Even before he had turned off the engine, a dark-green Citroën SUV drove into the parking lot. A woman in her fifties got out: shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair that was combed back, delicate yet energetic features, and a markedly dynamic gait. This had to be her: the mayor. Monette Megret. She was wearing a fitted suit the same color as her car, and pumps with a considerable heel.

She went straight over to Madame Griffon and the man. Dupin followed.

“There you are, Monsieur le Commissaire,” she greeted Dupin. “I wasn’t sure you would make it.” She stared pointedly at his Tahiti cap. “I’ll quickly make the introductions, then we’ll make a start. Agnès Griffon, who’s responsible for all of the island’s technology, including its water supply. But you probably already know each other. Madame Griffon will be the project leader on behalf of our organization. The project is called FEBI, by the way, Ferme Éolienne Flottante de Belle-Île. And,” a practiced smile, “she also happens to be my cousin. And that’s Monsieur Dunie from the company Eolfi, who has made the offshore wind turbine project a reality for our organization, with Danish turbines that have been specially created for it.”

Cousins? No one had mentioned that either. The mayor wasn’t only the sister-in-law of Riwal’s sister—but the cousin of Agnès Griffon, the victim’s ex-wife. Dupin would have to create a chart; this was doubtless just the beginning.

“I could have given you a lift.” Agnès Griffon nodded to Dupin.

“Pleased to meet you, Monsieur le Commissaire,” the man greeted him in an emphatically friendly tone.

Dupin still couldn’t make any sense of why they were holding their business meeting here at the airfield.

Madame Megret continued: “The first topic on the agenda is the three offshore turbines that are supposed to be in operation by next year. Last week, the moorings were set into the ocean floor. Everything went as planned. Initially we’ve installed buoys, and now we’re going out to take a look at them. I’m very excited to see them.”

Without any further explanation, she strode off at a resolute pace, and Dupin struggled to keep up.

“What do you mean, madame?”

She was making her way toward one of the larger white airplanes.

“A Diamond Star DA40, made for precisely four people. A legendary Lycoming-iO-360 engine—all you hear is a gentle purr, in spite of the one hundred eighty horsepower and two hundred and sixty kilometers per hour. Come in the front with me, then we can talk.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want to talk to me, get in. Otherwise, we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Dupin still wasn’t sure he had understood correctly.

“You want me to fly with you?”

“It’s either or.”

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, this was about the Smart Island Initiative, which was suddenly highly relevant to the case. They would have the opportunity to speak about it in detail. And besides, he only had himself, and his tardiness, to blame for this situation.

The mayor made a beeline for the cockpit. She gestured toward Dupin in a way that was clearly intended to mean: Get on with it.

Still a little hesitant, he made his way around to the other side. Three minutes later, the Diamond Star lifted off, after it had raced briskly along the runway, hopping adventurously, with Commissaire Georges Dupin, Monette Megret, Agnès Griffon, and Monsieur Dunie on board. Dupin had been focused on fastening himself in tightly, putting on the impressive headset, and then fixing his gaze on the concrete runway.

It was the smallest plane Dupin had ever been in. He didn’t have a fear of flying, but nor was it one of his favorite pastimes. A flight attendant had once told him he had “unusually oversensitive orientation faculties,” which meant he noticed even minimal shifts of the plane in the air.

They were already a few hundred meters above the ground when the mayor activated the internal radio: “So, let’s talk. I’ve put the two of us on our own frequency, so we’ll be undisturbed.”

Agnès Griffon and Monsieur Dunie were sitting right behind them, but on account of the deafening noise and the headphones, they really wouldn’t hear anything of the conversation. And yet it still felt odd.

They were flying straight toward Le Palais. With a view of the valley, the roads, the silvery, shining cars, the quaint houses, then the bustling harbor with its many boats, everything in miniature, even the fort above the town, the defiant, jagged course of its walls along the cliffs at the outermost precipice over the sea.

“I can’t conceal the fact that Patric Provost’s death is a stroke of luck for this phase of the project.” Until now the mayor had been sitting in a decidedly upright posture, but now she relaxed, or at least that’s how it looked, into the seat. “We could really use the money right now. Because we actually wanted to build four wind turbines. Because of the shortage in funds, we had to reduce it to three. But now we can make the fourth a reality, after all. And much more swiftly, because we can save ourselves a few loan applications.”

All at once, it was glitteringly bright. They were over the ocean, which meant: they had plunged into a shining silver. Not only the ocean was silver, but the entire sky. Dupin squinted.

“You’ll soon get used to it, Commissaire, but for a few moments you really can’t see a thing.” Quite an unsettling piece of information, coming from a pilot.

“What prompted Monsieur Provost to leave his entire fortune to your organization in his will?” Dupin pulled himself together. Airplane here nor there, he was working.

“He turned up unannounced in the mairie one day. Two years ago, in June. He told me he’d made provisions in his will for his entire fortune to go to the society we’d founded, in order to realize Belle-Île having its own self-sufficient energy supply. That’s the core idea of the Smart Island concept. To be frank, to him the main appeal was the island being entirely autonomous, more so than the ecological aspect. But that doesn’t matter. Currently, the island is supplied with energy by the mainland via an underwater cable.”

“And you had never spoken about the project previously?”

Dupin suddenly felt nauseated. Without any warning, Monette Megret had turned the steering by almost ninety degrees, which meant the entire plane had turned. Its left wing was now pointing almost fully downward. She had done it with utter calm, which was a good sign. Only gradually did she bring the Diamond Star back to a horizontal position. Heading west. To the left lay Belle-Île; a dark, shapeless mass in the silver ocean.

“No. Not at all. No one manipulated him. I presume that’s what you think.”

“It would be negligent of us not to follow this line of inquiry, madame.”

“Of course. But we didn’t even realize Provost was aware of the initiative. He had read in the newspaper about it. Honestly speaking, that wasn’t important to us. And to him, it was just about the concept.”

“The island’s independence.”

“Exactly. We’ll be the second island worldwide to be able to call itself ‘smart.’ Porto Santo was the first, which, although it’s Portuguese, is located off the African coast, meaning we’ll be the very first in Europe.”

Brittany in the lead, the ceterum censeo. But that’s how things were.

“The energy supply through the wind turbines is only one element of the entire concept. Another is the mobility. Solar panels will be installed on the roofs of all public buildings, which will be connected with a system of local energy stores. These will then supply intelligent self-service electro-charging stations all over the island. FlexiMobi’île, that’s the name of the program that will guarantee the subsequent electro-mobility. In order to reduce and manage them on the island so far, we’ve been bringing them to the mainland on ferries.”

This sounded like a well-practiced presentation.

“In any case”—there was now real verve in her voice—“today you’re witnessing a historic moment for the island, Monsieur le Commissaire. You’re seeing the laying of the foundation stone, if you will, for the wind energy park.”

The island—the Bellilois spoke of it as though it were a living thing.

“And this meeting today has been planned for some time?”

It was unsettling. The first visual inspection of the project was taking place on the very day its patron had been murdered. And was being enabled by his violent death.

“For several weeks.”

“Was Provost supposed to be here? As the generous funder?” Despite the connection by microphone and headset, they had to shout to make themselves understood. Dupin didn’t want to even imagine the noise levels of an airplane engine that didn’t “purr gently.”

“No. He took no interest in such things. And besides, it wasn’t even supposed to be public knowledge before his death that—”

“Excuse me for a moment, Madame Megret.”

It was absurd, but Dupin thought he had heard his cell phone ring. Faintly, in the background. And he was right. He dug it out of his jeans pocket.

Nolwenn.

They would be in the air for a while longer; he should take it. He squeezed the cell phone beneath the right-hand headphone earpiece and pushed it firmly against his ear. Although he could make out Nolwenn’s voice, he couldn’t understand a single word. “You’ll have to talk louder, Nolwenn,” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Very loudly!”

It occurred to him that none of his people knew his whereabouts.

“Where are you, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

Nolwenn really seemed to be shouting now, and yet he could only understand her if he concentrated intensely. “What’s that noise? You shouldn’t go so fast in that funny Citroën Méhari of yours!”

“I’m—in—a—plane, Nolwenn.”

“Well, it definitely sounds like it.”

“No. I really am on a plane.” This conversation was one of the most abstruse he’d ever had in his life. But this wasn’t the moment to point that out.

“Whatever. Kadeg has been trying to reach you. He has scans of the blackmail letters from Nantes. And we also found out they were published, word for word, by the media back then. There really is some correlation with some of the wording. Definitely significant, he says. I’ve taken a look too. I’m not sure. We…” She stopped for a moment. “Could you not pull over for a moment, Monsieur le Commissaire? The air stream is really awful.”

“I can hear you really clearly,” replied Dupin, who wanted at all costs to avoid explaining why he was in an airplane right now.

“But, of course, the current perpetrator could just have done that to suggest a connection that doesn’t exist. A diversion, to lead us up the garden path. Or indeed, and we can’t rule this out, it really is one and the same perpetrator.”

“Tell Kadeg to e-mail me the scans.” Dupin continued to yell.

“He already has. Are you on your way to see the mayor? If you are, then you’re fifteen minutes late, so I can see why you’re rushing…”

“I’ll be in touch later, Nolwenn.”

Dupin hung up.

“There, up ahead!”

The mayor’s voice was buoyant with excitement. With her right hand, she pointed toward a tiny dot in the distance, which slowly grew larger and gained color: red. Behind it, Île de Groix came into sight too.

Monette Megret lifted the yoke, at which the plane began to descend. Continually. Until, by Dupin’s estimate, they were less than a hundred meters over the sea.

“Monsieur le Commissaire, I’ve now switched Agnès and Monsieur Dunie onto our frequency.”

“There! The other two buoys are there too.”

Monsieur Dunie’s tone held just as much enthusiasm.

Dupin now spotted them too.

They were speeding toward the first buoy, and in a moment would fly right over it. Agnès Griffon leaned forward, a camera with a long telephoto lens in her hand.

“We’ll put the fourth behind, at the same distance,” explained Monsieur Dunie expertly. Clearly both he and Agnès Griffon already knew about the unexpected windfall.

“I shared the news with them before the flight, in confidence.” The mayor had guessed Dupin’s thoughts. “They both needed to know we should be able to quickly realize the fourth anchoring. Before the next construction phase begins. And besides, there’s no reason to conceal it.”

All that was missing was another commentary on the “stroke of luck” of Patric Provost’s death.

“Monsieur Provost,” Monette Megret tried to objectify her last sentence, “was in agreement that people could know about his generosity after his death.”

Not even twelve hours had passed since Provost’s death. And this wasn’t a death by natural causes, but murder.

“A generosity that will come as a great surprise to everyone, I’m guessing?” Dupin had to keep reminding himself that Provost’s ex-wife—or in truth, still his wife—was sitting with them in the plane.

“I think so, yes,” confirmed the mayor.

“I’m sure of it,” Agnès Griffon added matter-of-factly, as seemed to be her nature. “For Patric it wasn’t about the people or the environment. He hated people. He saw the island as his. That was it. And he wanted it to be strong and independent. He identified with the island.” In a way, Dupin found Provost’s decision quite logical.

They had flown over the last buoy. All at once it dawned on Dupin what was about to happen. And happen it did—very swiftly. The mayor made a sharp, 180-degree turn. Once again, the left wing was pointing directly downward, but this time at a significantly lower altitude. For a brief moment a fishing boat came into view, and both fishermen looked up curiously. They were so close that Dupin could easily make out a knife in one of the men’s hands.

“We need a few nice shots for the next newsletter,” the mayor explained cheerily. “Of the buoys and our island in the background.”

That was exactly their view right now. Dupin felt the telephoto lens on his shoulder.

“V164-9.5 MW turbines,” declared Monsieur Dunie, “the best of the best. On October 7 last year, we signed the contracts in the Danish embassy in Paris, and now Belle-Île will have at its disposal the most advanced technology in the world. Inexhaustible energy, drawn from the Atlantic and its wind, that functions even during a hurricane. The yield is double what you get on land. They’re giants, towering over even Brittany’s most spectacular lighthouses. It’s one hundred and eighty-five meters up to the highest point of the rotary blades!”

“And very aesthetic giants, too,” the mayor interjected, “all in white. True sculptures, proud monuments, visible from many kilometers away, even from land. They’ll be a landmark—like the Eiffel Tower.”

Dupin wouldn’t have thought her capable of enthusing like this.

“They’re built on land, then transported here by large trawlers,” added Madame Griffon. “The sea is seventy meters deep here. That’s why they’re mounted on special floating pontoons, rather than being fixed, so a forty-meter depth was the absolute max.”

“What kind of sums are we talking for the entire project? Just to have an idea.” Dupin was curious.

“Two hundred thirty million in total, of which eighty-three million comes from public funds. Provost’s fifteen million, at least, is a significant contribution nonetheless, so don’t underestimate it.”

Dupin wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so.

The mayor clearly wasn’t taking into account the statutory share going to her cousin Agnès Griffon, which would significantly lower the sum available for the project. And Griffon didn’t seem to want to add anything to the discussion. Even when they had spoken in Goulou, Dupin had gotten the impression she really didn’t want anything more than the million she had asked for.

“Worldwide, there are only a few floating wind turbines of the multi-megawatt class,” Monsieur Dunie informed him. “And yet they have the potential to supply all of the coastal regions on Earth with sustainable energy. That is the future.”

“Human beings can be so incredibly intelligent and yet mostly behave so stupidly.” An almost philosophical comment from the mayor. Dupin was in complete agreement.

“I’d like to know where you were between six and eight o’clock this morning, Madame le Maire.”

For a while, the radio communication went silent. The mayor was busy operating numerous buttons.

“That’s an abrupt change of subject, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ve switched our conversation back to private. But your question is, of course, fully understandable. I stand to profit the most out of this whole matter.”

They had flown over the three buoys for a second time. The mayor let the plane climb once again and set the course toward Belle-Île.

“I was at home. I get up at six every morning, and between seven and eight thirty I prepare myself for the day. Today, it was for the meeting right after this flight. And the Acadians committee meeting. At eight thirty-five, I leave the house, and five minutes later I arrive at the mairie. That’s my morning routine. And it was the same today. My husband can confirm all of that.”

“Anyone else besides your husband?”

“Not until eight forty. After that, yes.”

“Did you write any e-mails between seven and eight thirty?”

“No. I do everything analog, with letters, files, papers—the old-fashioned way.”

“Did you make any calls from the landline?”

“Not today.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“No, not at all.”

The plane had begun to shake heftily. Suddenly, there was turbulence.

“How long have you been president of the Acadians, madame?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Provost was also an Acadian and a member of this organization.”

“Indeed.”

“Captain Monsieur Zinc,” a name that was easy to remember, “is too. And Margot Fidelin.”

“Along with one hundred and twenty-four other Bellilois.”

Dupin heard his cell phone ring again. Quite unmistakably.

Kadeg.

He squeezed it beneath the headset again.

“I already know, Kadeg, I’ve spoken with Nolwenn,” he yelled into the phone.

Kadeg answered, but Dupin couldn’t understand a word.

“You have to talk louder, I can barely hear you, Kadeg.”

“You … in a plane. Hello?… There … Monsieur le Commi…?”

How did Kadeg know he was on a plane?

“I … barely … you. I’ll try … again…”

He had already hung up. It immediately rang again.

“I’ll—call—back—in—a—few—minutes, Kadeg,” bellowed Dupin, then, without waiting for an answer, he hung up.

The island was now to their left-hand side. They would soon begin the descent.

“Two minutes, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he heard the mayor say.

Dupin pulled himself together.

“Have there been any particular conflicts with Provost recently among the Acadians, Madame Megret?”

“Well, he thought the outgoings were too high again. But he raised that at every meeting.”

“Special outgoings?”

“It was about a student exchange program with Québec that the organization was supporting.”

“And he was against it?”

“Not in principle, no. But he wanted to drastically reduce the number of students.”

“Did he argue with anyone in particular about it?”

“No, with all of us. Apart from him, everyone voted for the intended twenty places.”

“Are there connections between the Acadians and the Smart Island Initiative?”

“The Acadians wholeheartedly support the effort to ecologically transform the island, but on a merely ideological level. There’s no kind of financial support; the organization itself doesn’t have considerable means, unlike some of its members. Its budget is similar to that of the average organization.”

“I see.”

Megret had suddenly steered in a particularly sharp curve, and at the same time, they were descending swiftly. Dupin’s oversensitive orientation faculties set off an internal alarm. They were flying toward the landing strip from the south. Dupin saw the breathtaking coast, the green plateau, the rocks. And also the long bay of Islonk, carved into the land.

“We’re flying over Provost’s house now,” called the mayor.

Within moments they had already passed Islonk. The Diamond Star descended further. Meadows, fields, and small copses flew past in alternation. Everything was racing. To the left was a small hamlet. Fifty meters to the ground, thirty. The landing strip came into sight. The other planes, the two white buildings, the parking lot and, quite clearly, two police cars with flashing blue lights. Dupin also spotted the frog-green rental van; the team bus. The plane landed with a hard bump, hopped alarmingly a few times, then finally slowed down. The mayor steered in an arc in order to return to their original starting point.

“Do your colleagues always greet you like this when you’ve only been on a short trip, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

All three of them, Kadeg, Riwal and Le Menn, dashed toward the plane, which had only just come to a standstill. Dupin could see from their faces that something wasn’t right. He jumped out.

“The captain, Albert Zinc.” Kadeg was the first to reach the commissaire, who, now back on solid ground, was feeling a little dizzy. “He’s been kidnapped, Monsieur le Commissaire. His car—”

“He’s what?”

Dupin had understood, of course.

“Zinc, kidnapped?”

“His brother, who lives in Bordeaux, just received a ransom letter. Guess how much it’s for!”

Dupin wouldn’t put it past Kadeg to really want him to guess, but he continued at once: “A million. Like with Provost, and like the case in Nantes three years ago, the bachelor millionaire.”

“When was Zinc last seen?”

“He captained the Vindilis,” Riwal intervened, “one of the ferries. She left Le Palais at six forty-five A.M. His shift ended at two twenty P.M. He handed the ferry over to his colleague, who takes over until the evening. His crew presume he went straight home after his early shift, like he always does. But apparently, he didn’t arrive. He…”

“Where and how did it happen?”

“We don’t know yet.”

They were still standing in front of the plane.

“When did the ransom request arrive at his brother’s?”

“At four fifty-two. A quarter of an hour ago. It was a phone call. With a distorted voice.” Kadeg was speaking in his usual staccato. “Telling him to get the money together. That he has two days. The kidnapper will then contact him with instructions for the handover—”

“We’ve got it!” The head of the island gendarmerie ran over to them with two gendarmes and interrupted Kadeg, puffing a little. “We’ve got Zinc’s car! It’s in the middle of a small unsurfaced track near Le Skeul. Right in the southeast of the island.”

“What was he doing there?”

“We’re not sure yet. We only just received the first report, two colleagues are on their way. It’s a very isolated region. Even in high season, there are only a few hikers there at most. But not in this heat.”

“Who found the car?”

Dupin set into motion.

“A beekeeper who was on his way to his hives. It’s a darkblue E-Pace, an electric Jaguar.”

Dupin ran toward his car.

“Any signs of a struggle?”

“Nothing obvious, no. The driver’s door was open. It looks as though everything happened really quickly. There’s nothing in the car, no personal items, no cell phone, nothing.”

“He must have driven there for a specific reason.” Riwal frowned. “Maybe he received a call. While he was still on the ferry, or after arriving in Le Palais. Maybe someone lured him out there.”

Dupin was now by his Méhari.

“We need his phone records as soon as possible.”

“They’ve already been requested,” parried Cosqueric.

“How many gendarmes are available to us on the island?”

“Eight.”

“We need more.”

“I’ll speak to Quiberon, Auray, and Vannes. But the island’s too big to search every single house, if that’s what you’re contemplating.”

Dupin had been thinking along these lines.

“And besides, the kidnapper could have taken him off the island by now.”

Cosqueric was right, of course.

“Nonetheless. I want us to look around every village here. Talk to the people, ask about any unusual occurrences. Perhaps we’ll be lucky.”

They had to try everything. Even though it seemed hopeless, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t just sit back and watch this happen.

“I’ve sent two officers to the captain’s house,” Cosqueric added. “Perhaps he’d already received some threats, even though the blackmailing is now via his brother.”

“A million.” Le Menn turned to Kadeg. “It’s really not such an unusual sum.”

Kadeg acknowledged the remark with a surly look.

Dupin jumped into the car.

“See you there!” He instinctively grabbed his hat off the passenger seat. “At Zinc’s car!” He had already turned the key in the ignition when it occurred to him that he didn’t even know where he was going.

“You go first,” he instructed Cosqueric.

The island gendarmerie immediately headed toward their police Peugeot; the Commissariat de Concarneau to the frog-green van. Once again, the route took them right across the island, along the practically straight D25, once again in convoy, through the meadows, fields, small forests, through the crazy colors and smells. Through the unique landscape mosaic, past cows, bales of hay, and sheep—many, many sheep. Right where they had turned off at lunchtime, toward the Plage des Grands Sables, shortly before the entrance to Locmaria, they now made a sharp right. The landscape here was bleak and rugged. Even more so than on the plateau near Islonk, the vegetation even more sparse. A sign appeared: Le Skeul. The word seemed familiar to Dupin. Didn’t it mean “ladder”? Was this where a person ascended to heaven? There was probably some legend attached to it. Shortly after, the tiny hamlet itself appeared. But the most noticeable thing was the majestic Atlantic, on both sides. Yet again in a different guise, a different blue: complete ultramarine. The immense protrusion of land they now found themselves on, a wild peninsula, rose even higher than the rock needles.

Beyond the hamlet, a narrow, graveled lane led to the right. The two police cars in front of Dupin braked abruptly and stopped at the side of the road. He did the same. Within seconds he had jumped out, the cap pulled down low over his forehead. The light was brutal, the heat unbearable. The airflow on the drive had been a real blessing.

Now Dupin spotted the captain’s dark-blue E-Pace. It was in the middle of the small road, on a bend. It looked a little like an advertisement for a cross-country vehicle; an ad agency would dream of a setting like this. Dupin slowly circled the car.

Riwal stepped over to join him, followed by Kadeg and Le Menn.

“Both are conceivable: that Zinc had to stop here because somebody or something was in front of him on the road and blocking his path, or he stopped here of his own accord. But then he would probably have driven to the side of the road. Like we did.”

Dupin, too, thought the first scenario more plausible.

“We’re getting twelve police officers from the mainland. They’re coming over in a police boat. Then there’ll be twenty of us, at least.”

Cosqueric was swift. And efficient. A wonderful combination. As he listened, Dupin studied the mossy grass beside the dusty track road.

“I’m meeting them in an hour from now,” Cosqueric continued, “so we can work out a plan for the hunt. Three police ships will also be patrolling an expanded area around the island. The harbormasters of all harbors surrounding the island have been informed. They’re looking to see which boats have left the harbor since three P.M. The ones heading out now are being checked.”

“Excellent.”

Dupin hadn’t thought of the harbors.

“Forensics should be here soon. By the way, they haven’t found anything relevant on Provost’s boat, nor in his house.”

“Right now we really need to look for traces of a second car.” Dupin crossed to the other side of the road.

“And for signs of a boat having moored.” Riwal pointed toward a bay, to which the track snaked down. A heavenly sandy beach, framed by mighty, sharp rocks. “They could have taken him onto a boat.”

Dupin had to keep reminding himself: boats were more important than cars here. They were the only way of getting off the island. And also from any point of the coast to another.

“The press has already gotten wind of this.” Cosqueric nodded his head toward Zinc’s car. “It was to be expected. I spoke with two reporters on the drive over. I think I was able to deter them from coming here.”

“Good.”

Once again, Dupin was highly impressed by Cosqueric’s authority. Dupin hadn’t yet set eyes on a single reporter.

“I have to speak with the captain’s brother. Who just spoke with him on the phone?”

“He’s Matthieu Zinc, a neurologist with his own practice, quite a large one. Cosqueric spoke to him first, then I did,” replied Riwal.

Dupin was feeling a little strange. But not because of the attack of dizziness after the flight. It had begun at midday, by the cliff needles, where he had seen the supposed figure. Everything seemed to be swaying, and breathing felt difficult. Claire always said he didn’t drink enough. Not enough water and too much coffee, and that in extreme heat he therefore had too few electrolytes, which apparently led to “the complete overwhelm of the body’s own cooling system.” Alongside the dizziness, he really did feel slightly unwell, and had a dull headache again.

He pulled himself together: “Can his brother remember the wording of his conversation with the kidnapper?”

“I didn’t ask him that,” muttered Cosqueric, “I think he’s in shock.”

“Kadeg.” Dupin turned immediately to his inspector. “Read us these blackmail letters from three years ago.”

Kadeg took a while to position himself so he could see the small display on his phone despite the glaring sunlight. Everyone gathered around him: “‘You have three days to get a million euros to us. Should you not comply with this demand, you will die. You’ll meet the same fate if you go to the police. We’ll let you know where to leave the money.’”

Kadeg paused and opened the next e-mail. “Just a day later, another letter arrived, again posted from the center of Nantes…”

“Where were the letters to Provost posted from, by the way?” Dupin had wondered this earlier.

“We don’t know. We only found the letters, not the envelopes,” Cosqueric explained.

“Keep going, Kadeg…”

“‘As soon as you have the money, bring it in the suitcase to the estuary of Etier de Vair in the Loire. There’s a bench right on the estuary. Put the suitcase there.’ That was it. The industrialist’s villa, by the way, is located fairly centrally in Nantes.”

“No date or time?” Dupin asked.

“Nothing.”

“Which means the perpetrator must have been constantly watching him. They knew when their victim was setting out to the estuary with the suitcase,” concluded Le Menn.

“The area around the estuary is completely isolated,” added Cosqueric, “it’s in the middle of nowhere. Easy for the blackmailer to keep watch over.”

“And he could have gone out there by boat,” Riwal conjectured. “He or she.”

“The important thing is that the wording is noticeably similar.” Kadeg returned to his point. “‘Should you not comply with this demand, you will die.’ It’s identical.”

“But what else would they write?” Le Menn argued. “Aren’t blackmail letters always similar? And besides, the letters were published word for word during the investigation. Somebody could be intentionally emulating them in order to trick us.”

These were plausible counterarguments. And yet Kadeg’s point couldn’t be easily dismissed; it could be one and the same perpetrator.

“But what’s happening now doesn’t really fit.” Riwal seemed just as skeptical. “A kidnapping is a new element, previously it was classical blackmailing. Both with the industrialist in Nantes and Provost. But now?”

“In essence it’s the same, though: the perpetrator is demanding money. A million. Perhaps they need it urgently,” Kadeg buttressed his theory. “And the blackmail attempt didn’t work with Provost, so they varied it a little. And the approach isn’t all that different. It’s not like they suddenly robbed a bank.”

“The routines are in motion, by the way.” Cosqueric became methodical. “The police in Bordeaux are looking into the call, the localization, tracing and so on. A commissaire there will go and see Monsieur Zinc.”

“Cosqueric, give me his number.”

Dupin wanted to speak with Monsieur Zinc himself.

“I’ll send it to you, and also get you a bottle of water. You need to stay hydrated. I don’t know whether the reddened skin on your face is just from the sun.” Cosqueric set off.

“Boss, that really is a sign of serious overheating.” Now Riwal was concerned.

Dupin hadn’t noticed it until now, but his skin was very red on his arms too. He muttered something that he himself didn’t understand. A minute later, he was walking with his cell phone pressed against his ear and the water bottle in his hand down the small track to the bay.

“Hello?”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Zinc, this is Commissaire Georges Dupin. We’re investigating your brother’s kidnapping. I’m incredibly sorry, monsieur. We’re doing everything in our power to find him and get him home unharmed.”

“Thank you.”

His voice was shaky.

“It would really help us if you can remember the exact wording of the blackmail call.”

It was also possible that it might not help in the slightest, even if there were other similarities.

“He didn’t say a great deal.”

Dupin had almost reached the bottom of the bay. The sand stretched out far into the turquoise sea.

“Please try to remember.”

Matthieu Zinc fell silent for a while.

“‘Listen carefully,’ that’s the first thing he said, ‘we’ve got your brother. You’ll give us a million euros, otherwise he dies.’ Something like that.”

That sounded fairly specific.

“Did he say anything else?”

“‘Get the money to us within the next three days.’ I’ll pay it, Monsieur le Commissaire. Immediately.” He sounded distraught.

It had been three days in the Nantes case, too. But Le Menn had been right; that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“And that was it?”

“Yes. Then he hung up. Do you think my brother’s still on the island? If he is, you must surely be able to find him.”

He was struggling to speak.

“The search is already underway, monsieur. And we have backup from the mainland police force. We’re doing everything we can.”

“I know, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“You haven’t thought of anything that might be relevant, I presume?”

“No, nothing. We get on really well, Albert and I, but unfortunately we don’t see much of each other. Once or twice a year. I know too little about his life. It makes me sad.”

Dupin knew just what he meant.

“Had there ever been any blackmail attempts previously?”

“No. I’ll gather the funds tomorrow morning, that’s no problem. And I’ll await the instructions. Do you think they’ll let my brother go, once I pay?”

“Three years ago, there was a similar case in Nantes. The perpetrator—or perpetrators—there cooperated once the payment was made.”

“That’s some reassurance, at least.”

It genuinely seemed to make Monsieur Zinc feel a little better.

Dupin had walked out as far as the tide.

“My colleague from Bordeaux will be in touch, monsieur. We’ll have someone guarding you, discreetly, of course. And we’ll also try to trace the phone number when the kidnapper calls back.”

The usual approach. Which almost never led to anything.

“Good.”

“If anything else comes to mind, please contact me. Day or night.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“Speak soon, Monsieur Zinc.”

“Au revoir.”

It was odd; to the south, land now seemed visible. Flat land, or rather, blots of land, islands. Perhaps just sandbanks. But some of them had trees. Palms? Except, to the south of Belle-Île, there was no land.

Dupin shook himself.

Just a few centimeters separated Dupin’s shoes from the water. And yet there was no danger of getting wet; there wasn’t even a minimal lapping of water. Not the slightest movement. The wild Atlantic, capable of devastating, deadly rages, lay there like a gentle lake. Like a giant that had lain down for a peaceful nap and was now sleeping soundly.

“Everything okay, boss?”

Riwal had appeared next to him, as though out of nowhere.

“Everything’s okay.”

“Slate is calming, boss. From the inside out.”

Riwal saw Dupin’s clueless look.

“Slate, boss! Not granite. The neighboring islands of Houat and Hoëdic as well as the Quiberon peninsula and almost all of Brittany: it’s all granite. But not here. Belle-Île is a world of slate, of volcanic origin, the entire massif consists of crumbling, disintegrating slate.”

Riwal worded it as though it were a significant revelation. Dupin was a little surprised, to say the least; normally his inspector waxed lyrical about granite, the essence of Brittany.

“Slate tests people’s endurance. Anything that can’t hold, falls away. It grounds you, calms you down, brings you back to yourself. People who have a tendency for building castles in the sky find ground beneath their feet again, and a connection to reality, it shifts their gaze to what’s around them. Slate is also helpful when it comes to resolving a complicated case, boss, especially for you.”

Dupin was about to ask. But Riwal carried on anyway.

“Slate can also be too calming, admittedly, and that can be genuinely dangerous. But,” he paused for a moment, “that doesn’t worry me with you, boss. You could live on a gigantic planet made of the purest slate and you still wouldn’t be in danger of becoming too calm.”

“Riwal…”

But Riwal deflected Dupin’s intervention: “We’re currently trying to find out about the financial circumstances of the people involved so far.”

They had begun to walk, and now reached the stony coastal path, which rose steeply.

“Good. The mayor’s too?”

“That’s particularly delicate, of course, but we’re trying.”

It was impossible right now through the usual channels; there weren’t sufficient grounds for suspicion, with anyone involved, to be able to obtain this kind of information from the banks. Fortunately, however, there were gray areas—and these were essential during investigations.

Riwal suddenly came to a halt.

“This is all a bit strange, isn’t it, boss? Something’s not right here.”

Of course, something wasn’t right. One man had been murdered, another kidnapped … But Dupin knew what Riwal meant.

They set off again.

Walking always helped. And so did a sip of water here and there. Dupin had emptied the entire bottle in one gulp, and immediately felt a little better. He had never been a great water drinker and, in that sense, this made him very Breton: L’eau, c’est pour les vaches was the Breton saying—“Water is for the cows.”

It looked as though they would be able to walk in a large arc along the edge of the cape, and get back to the track they had come from. Unlike Monet’s cliff needles, the coast here didn’t descend steeply into the sea; the land protrusion was partly rounded, the crumbled, faded slate clearly visible. Not even stubby grasses or moss grew here.

Riwal checked the time. “You’ve got your meeting with the menhir researcher now, Manuel Trotter. Thirty-three years old. Right now, at six.”

Dupin had completely forgotten about it. All of it. The meeting, the menhir researcher, the time.

“Should I postpone it, boss?”

“Call him and say I’m running late. Ask him to wait.”

“I’m on it.”

Riwal pulled out his phone.

“Hello? This is Inspector Riwal, from the police … Exactly … I just wanted to say that Commissaire Dupin is running a little late. Seven, I think … Okay, yes … au revoir.”

Riwal ended the call.

“All sorted, boss. You need to go to Jean and Jeanne. To Jean, to be precise. Trotter is waiting for you there.”

“Jean?”

“That’s the name of one of the two menhirs Trotter’s studying. The other is Jeanne. There’s a very beautiful story for each of them—”

“What else do we know about this man, Riwal?”

So far, Trotter was a peripheral figure.

“He’s already written three books. One about Stonehenge, one about stone monuments of that era in general, and one about those in Carnac. I would say they’re pitched somewhere between lunacy and science.”

For Dupin, it was definitely more in the direction of lunacy than it was for Riwal.

“Carnac is a pretty surreal sight, boss, this army of three thousand stones in parallel rows. No one knows who erected them, when or why, it’s a mystery to this day. But everyone can feel its special energy.”

“And what does he write about Carnac?”

Dupin lifted off his Tahiti cap for a moment. The slate seemed to soak up the heat.

“In essence, he gives an overview of all the theories on it.”

“Such as?”

Dupin immediately regretted his hasty follow-up question.

“Look, boss!” Riwal had come to an abrupt halt. His gaze wasn’t trained on the sea and its dreamlike panorama, but the cliffs that had been sculpted by the weather, water, and time. “The island’s ecstatic color magic is mostly down to the lichen! Especially the colors of the rocks you see in the paintings by Monet and Matisse, they’re utterly true to life. It’s the lichen, look closely! They’re the secret.”

Riwal pointed toward various spots, and he was right.

“The orange, red, yellow, white, blue, and green, in all their nuances. It’s all there! And even an antique pink. Very rare among lichen. And then take a look at Monet’s pictures! Antique pink, that’s all I’m saying.”

The lichen resembled haphazardly applied, shapeless splashes of color, varnish-like, scurfy, porous. In all shapes and sizes. Dupin had noticed them in Islonk, too. A kind of natural graffiti.

“Lichen are totally misunderstood, boss, they’re systematically underestimated. They come into being as a unique connection between ocean and earth, from algae and fungi. A perfect symbiosis! And, incidentally, boss, that’s precisely what Belle-Île is too: the complete blend of mer et terre. There are over two thousand varieties of lichen in Brittany, more than anywhere else in the world.”

Dupin hadn’t expected anything else.

“These ones here”—Riwal pointed toward a single orange-colored stone—“have probably even seen Julius Caesar sail past here with his fleets in the Gallic Wars. Lichen can live to forty-seven hundred years, they—”

“Riwal!”

“You’re right, boss, back to the menhir theories. I—”

“I’d rather you tell me a little more about the mayor.”

Enough of the fantastical stories.

“Hmm. As I said, Monette Megret is very well respected. An incredibly clever,” a brief pause, “and exceptionally attractive woman. Permanently in action. She can move a great deal. Even the future.” These were impressive words, but in the face of what Dupin now knew, they didn’t seem exaggerated. “Many mayors could learn a thing or two from her, especially in the big cities. Belle-Île is ahead of them all!”

Riwal, ever the proud Bellilois.

“Megret has raised over two hundred million euros for her project. Plus the millions from Patric Provost.”

It really was impressive.

“For one of the most ambitious energy projects in the world.”

“Is Madame Megret married?”

“Yes, to a professor from the University of Vannes.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Do you think Provost really left his entire fortune to her of his own accord?”

“You mean,” Riwal hesitated, “that he may have been coerced by her in some way?”

Dupin could easily imagine it.

“Considering what we know so far about him and his life, and particularly about his character, I don’t find his decision that far-fetched, boss. It totally makes sense. Under no circumstances did he want to leave it to a person, to a human being. Rigorous independence was without a doubt one of his life principles, alongside miserliness”—Riwal remained matter-of-fact—“and the joy he took in sabotaging the lives and dreams of others. And he was a Bellilois through and through. He didn’t like the mainland. Like most people here.”

Riwal was right.

“Couldn’t Monette Megret have a successful career somewhere else?”

“Absolutely. But why would she leave Belle-Île?”

His response sounded like: How could someone even ask this question? Or even come to such an idea?

“This is where she’s from. Her family’s been living on the island since 1772. They’re Acadians.”

“Of which she’s the president.”

“I’m noticing this subject is preying on your mind, boss. What’s your suspicion regarding the Acadians? That the association or one of its members plays a role in all this?”

“Provost, the captain, Madame Fidelin, Megret. They’re all members.”

“As are one hundred and twenty-four other Bellilois.”

That had been the mayor’s exact response too.

“The association’s members presumably have a rough idea about the others’ financial circumstances. On such a small island.”

“If you want, I can speak in more detail with my neighbor, boss, he’s a member. A person of high integrity. Perhaps I’ll hear something interesting.”

They had reached the outermost tip of the cape. This was where the “continent” ended, at its southernmost and also—almost—its easternmost point.

“You do that, Riwal.”

Dupin let his gaze sweep over the sea, which was now a sublime inky blue. In spite of the sun, which had evaporated many billions of liters of the Atlantic over the course of the day, the air was clear. If someone were to set out in a boat and follow Dupin’s gaze through the Bay of Biscay to the south, eventually they would arrive in the harbor of Bilbao. That is if the island hadn’t made another leap through space by then; otherwise, it could just as easily be the harbor of Saint-Tropez, Bastia, Cardiff, Donegal, or Arrecife … In terms of the atmosphere, any would fit.

Something had been nagging away at Dupin, and it was difficult to put into words: on the island, the blue seemed to be a kind of independent light. It seemed to emanate from a myriad of the tiniest, aeriest, ethereal blue suns, which filled the atmosphere of Belle-Île.

“Speaking of my neighbor, boss. That brings me to the question of how we want to do things tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Where do you want to sleep, boss? Kadeg and Le Menn are staying with me. You’re very welcome to have a room with me too, the house is big enough.”

Dupin came to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t given it any thought.

“Or do you want to go back to Concarneau this evening and come back in the morning? Goulch can pick you up and bring you back. Finding a hotel room would be tricky, at such short notice in high season, and the touristic infrastructure in Belle-Île isn’t that developed.”

“Actually, yes. I mean, actually I was planning to go back.”

That had been his assumption, naturally.

“That means two additional boat trips, boss.”

“Hmm.” Dupin paused.

Damn. He felt conflicted by two intense versions. Two additional boat trips, which were actually avoidable, or a night with colleagues in the same accommodation. One of Dupin’s avid dislikes, which wasn’t rooted in any antipathy to his colleagues. What was worse? The first and last time he’d had to spend the night with them had been eight years ago, a case on Glénan. Back then, he had sworn to himself it would be the only time. And yet.

He started to walk again.

“Of course, it could be a late finish tonight.” Dupin tried to find reasoning. “And you never know what’s going to happen during a case. Including at night. Especially at night. Then I wouldn’t be on hand. The gendarmerie continue working on the island into the night, certainly, at least until late in the evening.”

“That’s very true, boss.”

“Goulch can pick you up,” Riwal repeated. “You know what speeds the Bir can get up to, so the trip wouldn’t last that long.”

“I’d be happy to, Riwal. I mean, happy to accept your offer. Of the room.” Dupin sighed audibly.

“Great, boss.” Riwal was visibly content. “And we’ll have to think about food too. None of us have eaten since breakfast. We won’t get far on that.”

Dupin hadn’t even had breakfast; he hadn’t gotten around to his croissant in the Amiral.

“I took the liberty of reserving a table for half past eight. It’s pure luck we were able to get something at such short notice in high season.”

Riwal almost sounded like Nolwenn.

“You should be done with Trotter by then. Then we can all have something to eat and update one another.”

That sounded like a wonderful plan.

“Good.” Enough of the logistics for now. There was one other point that Dupin had been preoccupied with, albeit in a vague way: “Isn’t it a strange coincidence that Agnès Griffon was on the flight?”

“They work together. And the project is connected with Madame Griffon’s job here on the island. She had to be there, boss.”

“And they’re cousins.”

Dupin’s comment hovered vaguely in the air. He attempted it again: “Agnès Griffon is still Provost’s wife, officially speaking, and also the mayor’s cousin and coworker. And they’re both the only benefactors from Provost’s death. Both will now receive enormous sums. And their profit, if I understand correctly, goes beyond the financial: both will really make a name for themselves with the wind energy project.”

“The project would have been realized either way, except with just three windmills. And besides: What about the captain’s kidnapping? Why would they do that?”

A lengthier silence arose.

Dupin just didn’t feel on form. And it had gotten worse since they had started talking about food.

“You know what Brittany’s like, boss.”

Dupin had to be on his guard when Riwal started a sentence like that, also because it meant Dupin was clearly misjudging fundamental Breton relations.

“Relationships between the people are close and numerous here. Everyone knows everyone, they’re friends, or related, and people pursue many different interests. That’s how it is.”

The description could just as easily apply to the Camorra mafia.

“And besides, Griffon isn’t the ‘mayor’s coworker’ but rather the leader of the entire island’s energy supply. Not just Bangor’s. And think about how many people will profit from Provost’s death. Not just through inheritance, but in a very concrete way, in each of their lives. Even materially. As I see it, everyone stands to profit. Even the captain was in conflict with Provost. He wants to extend his house in order to rent part of it to vacationers. It’s not like he needs to, but still. Even though it’s his house, Provost claimed it was under protection as a historic building and submitted a complaint to the authorities. Pure bullying tactics. The matter’s now under investigation.”

“Was the mayor involved in that?”

“Presumably, yes.”

Monette Megret wouldn’t have wanted to alienate Provost, that much was clear.

“Boss, all I mean is: this case presents a great number of volatile, very personal, highly emotional motives. And we shouldn’t completely rule out the possibility of a perpetrator from the mainland.”

Riwal didn’t seem to like the fact that suspicion so far rested solely on the Bellilois.

“You’re right, Riwal.”

They had reached the end of the small circular path. The graveled road, the captain’s car, and their colleagues came into view. The group had expanded again, which meant the forensics team had joined them.

“I’m heading off, Riwal.”

“I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.”

“Please do.”

Dupin pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked toward the Méhari.

It was the sixth time today that Dupin had taken the long, almost straight road across the island, this time continuing past the exit to the airport and Islonk, and on to Kerlédan. Roughly halfway, he had encountered a police checkpoint, where meticulous gendarmes were scrutinizing the drivers, inquiring about their destinations and then inspecting the vehicles, including the trunks. Dupin had only been able to convince them of his police credentials by showing his ID; the orange cabriolet and bright red Tahiti cap hadn’t helped convey his authority. Then he had needed to call Riwal three times in order to even locate the menhirs, having expected them to be signposted. But as was so often the case, Brittany concealed its attractions, or rather: it offered such a large number of sightseeing spots that it didn’t need to make a fuss about each individual one. What’s more, with two legendary menhirs, Dupin had expected a spectacular, or at least moderately mythical, backdrop.

Jean stood less than three meters from the D25, on the recently mowed shoulder. Behind it lay an equally unenigmatic field—mown, brownish-yellow singed grass, and bales of hay, those ubiquitous yet wonderful monuments of high summer, large wheels distributed at mysterious intervals. If you didn’t know what they were, you might think they were extraterrestrial symbols, something on a par with crop circles. And of course, seen from the sky, you would be able to make out cryptic patterns.

But even though the location was banal, Jean was anything but.

It was vast. Four meters in height, Dupin estimated, awe-inspiringly making up for everything it lacked in backdrop through its appearance and aura. A light, weathered stone, the surface resembled ancient tree bark. It gave the confusing impression that it was growing out of the earth. Even that was possible on Belle-Île. From a distance, you might think it was an ancient, weather-beaten tree stump.

Dupin had stopped the car at the side of the road.

The menhir researcher, Manuel Trotter, looked just as Dupin had imagined him. It was almost eerie how much the idea, which, in this case, Dupin had to admit, was founded in cliché, corresponded with reality. Trotter was the very picture of a forest ranger: fine, shoulder-length hair, center parting; a medium-length beard; a loose-fitting, faded linen shirt; wide dark fabric trousers; and an interesting pair of shoes, a cross between sandals and high-tech outdoor shoes. Accompanying all that, a somewhat battered, light fabric hat.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Trotter.”

Trotter was standing directly next to the menhir. He wasn’t even half as tall as the stone, though Dupin estimated him to be at least one eighty-five. Around the menhir he had mounted three tripods bearing large cameras. Professional cameras, by the looks of it.

The researcher hadn’t seen Dupin approaching; the precise orientation of one of the three cameras seemed to be consuming all of his attention. Then he hesitantly turned his head in Dupin’s direction, but without moving from the spot.

“Bonjour.”

In the next moment, he had already turned his attention back to aligning the camera.

“I have a few questions for you, Monsieur Trotter.”

Dupin let a brief pause arise.

“First of all, where you were this morning. Between five and eight o’clock?”

“Here. At the menhirs. The sun rose at six fifty-seven today. It sets at nine thirty-seven.” He kept his eye to the viewfinder. “At this time of year I take photos of them both during the sunrise and sunset. So I was here by five thirty. It’s all about the exact astronomical and astrological alignment of the menhirs.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.” He added a quiet: “As always.”

“Did anyone see you arriving or leaving?”

“I don’t think so. Or at least, I didn’t see anyone. Perhaps someone driving their car. But not many people are out at that time of the morning.”

“Did anyone see you in Islonk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Were you here with the menhirs all day?”

“I was home between one and five in the afternoon. Today I’ll stay out for quite a while.”

Trotter provided the information willingly.

“And in your break, did you see anyone then?”

“No, I didn’t run into anyone.”

Dupin walked slowly around the menhir. The longer and more closely he studied it, the crazier it looked. It seemed to become more alive, as though there were a figure in it. And it seemed to be expanding, in mass, in surface. Growing. Becoming a living giant.

Dupin looked back at Trotter.

“Your neighbor, Albert Zinc, the captain, has been kidnapped. This afternoon. The kidnapper’s demanding a million euros in ransom money.”

For the first time, Trotter turned his full attention toward Dupin. His expression was hard to read.

“Things are escalating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just a feeling. These are—serious events.” A strangely penetrating gaze.

“Yes, incredibly serious, monsieur. When did you last see Patric Provost?”

“The day before yesterday. We happened to arrive in the hamlet at the same time, around six in the evening perhaps.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“We just greeted each other from a distance. Our houses are quite a way apart.”

Trotter leaned over the camera again.

“When”—only now did Dupin dare glance back at Jean—“did you last see his dog?”

“I’ve mostly only heard him. When I sit in the garden in the evenings. No idea. The night before last, perhaps? Not last night, anyway.”

Dupin paused.

“Isn’t it perhaps a little longer? A week or ten days?”

“Last Saturday, and on Monday, I sat in the small garden behind the house until late at night. I heard him then. On one of those two days, I think.”

Dupin had now circled the menhir once. And he had noticed something else astonishing: the stone was actually rectangular, but when you walked around it, the edges disappeared. It became round.

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t pay particular attention to it, of course. I…” He fiddled with the camera. “I hear him quite often. He picks up some scent or another and runs up the meadow. To the sheep.”

“Did you not sit outside at night in the days and weeks beforehand?”

Trotter was silent for a while.

“Yes, actually I did. The heat wave began the week before last, that’s right.”

Dupin now noticed: the heat, strangely, was less oppressive here by the menhirs.

“So it could have been longer?”

“Hmm. Perhaps. But no, I don’t think so.”

The conversation was getting arduous.

“Do you have any ideas on the whole matter, monsieur?” Dupin launched into a second lap around the menhir. “Regarding who could have blackmailed Provost and kidnapped the captain?”

“Not in the slightest. And I don’t know anyone here anyway.”

“Have you noticed anything since you’ve been here, something which in the light of today’s events could seem suspicious? Anything at all?”

“No. I’ve only been here two weeks. And I keep myself to myself. I have to finish my book by the end of September.”

Trotter walked over to the tripod at the other side of the menhir, without so much as a glance at Dupin, who was watching him attentively.

“How did it come about that you’re renting this particular house in Islonk? One belonging to Provost?”

“By chance. An ad in the paper. The house is in quite a bad state, but that makes it relatively cheap. And I don’t need much. Besides, there were only two houses left vacant on the entire island, given it’s August.”

He began the same procedure as with the first camera: laborious adjustments.

“The two have edged closer to each other again. Exactly one point seven centimeters. In just one year.”

“What?”

“Jean and Jeanne. Fifty years ago, when they were first precisely measured, they stood two hundred forty-seven meters away from each other, now it’s two hundred thirty-nine meters and fifteen point seven centimeters. I’ve been measuring the distance with a laser device for the last ten years. The speed is increasing, too, they’re practically racing toward each other.”

“Excuse me?”

“Once they touch, it means the end of the world. The people here have known it for eons.”

Dupin suppressed the impulse to ask further questions. Not least because, as he knew, it had been known for a long time that the world actually would come to an end. Claire liked to explain it: the sun already had half its “life” behind it, and in just a billion years all life on Earth would be burnt out, because the sun would expand increasingly as the end approached.

“As soon as they touch!” the menhir researcher echoed his warning.

“Well, we’ve still got a bit of time.”

Dupin had worded it without a sarcastic undertone.

“Jean was the son of a holy bard. The most powerful bard there ever was, and Jeanne was a poor shepherdess. The spiritual laws forbade a relationship between them, because a bard was expected to remain in numinous circles. And yet they fell for each other, and met secretly each night to abandon themselves to their love. The leader of the druids instructed the witches of Borgroix to turn them to stone, far away from each other. And that’s why they’re standing here. But on some full-moon nights, a fairy comes, and, moved by the suffering lovers, brings them to life for the fraction of a moment, letting them move toward each other. She means well. But it will bring about the end of times.”

Trotter had narrated the legend entirely without the typical Breton verve. And yet it was one of these fantastical stories, of which there were apparently as many in Brittany as there were stars in the night sky.

Dupin had now completed his second circumnavigation of the menhir. He turned toward Trotter. “No one can confirm your statements, Monsieur Trotter. Unfortunately, you have no alibi.”

It had just occurred to Dupin. This was the situation. And it carried even more weight because the other neighbors did have an alibi. And only the mayor’s didn’t seem watertight; no one could confirm it besides her husband.

“Do you want to—”

Dupin’s phone interrupted Trotter.

It was Cosqueric.

“Excuse me.” Dupin took a few steps onto the mown meadow.

“Yes?”

“We now know why Zinc drove to Le Skeul. His best friend lives there. Or close by, anyway. A farmer. Kind of isolated, there’s only one house. Zinc and he had planned to meet. But Zinc didn’t turn up. The friend heard something about an incident on the radio and got in touch right away.”

“Hmm. I think we should speak with this farmer.”

“I know him personally, Commissaire. A man of integrity. His wife and children were home too, one is six years old and the other eight. I’ll drive over there.”

“Okay, Cosqueric.”

“By the way, we’ve just received the phone records for Zinc. Landline and cell. He didn’t receive any calls today at the time in question, nor did he make any. None at all during the whole day. The last call was from yesterday evening. That’s when his friend in Le Skeul called him, about their meeting today.”

“Which means that either the perpetrator knew Zinc was going to Le Skeul, or they followed him. If the latter, then most likely from the ferry.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m just speaking to the menhir researcher. Let’s talk more later, Cosqueric.”

“Until then.”

Trotter, who was now preoccupied with the third camera, didn’t seem to notice Dupin’s return.

“Where were we?” began Dupin. “Oh yes, are you in any financial difficulty, Monsieur Trotter? That’s what I wanted to ask.”

The menhir researcher looked up, at least for a moment.

“I have enough money.”

He leaned back over the camera.

“What does that mean?”

“I inherited.”

“A significant sum?”

“Exactly.”

It sounded convincing.

“And I don’t even need it. All that money. I need almost nothing.”

“Do you ever have business in Nantes?”

“No.”

“Over the last few years?”

“No.” He straightened up. “All done. I’m finished here. Now I need to go to Jeanne.”

He walked off, crossing the road. He clearly planned to just leave all his equipment lying around here.

Dupin followed.

“Did you have much contact with Patric Provost?”

“No. We spoke briefly when I arrived, he gave me the key and showed me the house. That was it. I had no idea the land here belongs to him…”

“What?”

“This land here. The meadows, the field. Where Jean and Jeanne stand.”

“It belongs to him?”

They were walking through a tilled field. Leeks, leeks all around them. And here you could suddenly feel the heat again.

“It belongs to him. His sheep are somewhere over there.” Trotter made a vague gesture which, strictly speaking, pointed nowhere. “Or at least they were there just now, they were grazing directly around Jeanne. And not just grazing. I’ve been writing to the community for some years now, and the mayor. Telling them they should do something for the menhirs. Protect them. Like in Carnac. The tourists shouldn’t be allowed to touch them, at the very least. Everyone wants to, naturally.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to Dupin.

“So your menhirs are on Provost’s land. Interesting.”

“They’re not my menhirs.”

“And Provost’s sheep graze here?”

“Near Jeanne. Frequently.”

“Was there a sheep farmer here just now?”

“Tenom.”

“You know each other? You and Monsieur Burlot?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“No. But we chat now and then, if he’s here.”

“So Tenom Burlot was just here,” Dupin repeated slowly to himself.

“Exactly.”

“When did he arrive?”

“We actually just saw each other in passing. About half an hour ago.”

Dupin frowned. It might mean nothing at all. But then again, perhaps it did. This case was driving him mad, making him lose his sun-scorched mind. None of his thought processes were functioning. They were defective; had evaporated in the heat. He suddenly felt cold sweat, and an almost unbearable agitation. Once again, the dizziness came over him. The headache was back too.

“And you wrote to Madame Megret, the mayor of Bangor? To request protective measures for the menhirs?”

Once again, Dupin had repeated it more for himself than for Trotter.

“Exactly.”

From the field of leeks, they had now walked into dense, thorny brambles that came up to hip height. So thorny that Dupin could feel them even through the fabric of his jeans.

“Did she respond?”

“She wrote that it was private land, so the measures couldn’t be enforced, but that she would pass on my request. So it wasn’t really a response.”

“Do you feel the two menhirs are in imminent danger?”

Dupin himself was astonished at his question.

“In the long term, certainly. The truth is that they belong to Carnac’s holy constellation. They form its heart, even. They open the energy field, tear it open. Right on the line of an Atlantic grave. That’s what my book’s about.”

Something in Trotter’s voice had changed. Or was it just Dupin’s imagination? He could feel his heart racing.

“Did Provost try to oppose you in any way? With your studies here? Or anything else?”

“Why would he? And besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about the menhirs. And they need to be looked after.”

Jeanne came into view. They had reached an unmown natural meadow, like something from a picture book. Knee-high grass, wildflowers. Dupin hesitated, then pulled himself together: “What kind of theories are those? About the menhirs here and in Carnac, I mean?”

His question didn’t seem to surprise the researcher. “Seen from the air, they form geometric patterns.” Trotter spoke calmly, deliberately. “To be more precise, exact triangles with consistently identical aspect ratios, five to twelve to thirteen. They originate from the mysterious era between 4500 and 2300 BC. A time when fishermen still went out to sea in primitive wickerwork boats. To erect such precise and complex large-scale monuments, you’d need knowledge of advanced mathematics and developed measuring techniques. I’d rather not say any more.”

He paused briefly.

“The ancient astronautics see extraterrestrials at work in Carnac.”

It remained unclear what Trotter himself thought of that, and Dupin preferred not to ask.

“Most people interpret the stone rows as religious sites of a prehistoric funerary cult of farmers and fishermen who lived on the Atlantic fringe of Europe, like we Celts today. Some think they are ruins of an archaic temple site. Others see in them the remains of a fortress wall that protected people from both real, cult, and occult dangers. From creatures that emerged from the Atlantic’s endless, dark depths.”

These dramatic images contrasted with Trotter’s otherwise calm manner.

“Old Bretons from the Carnac region also tell the story of holy Cornelius. In 253 AD, in Rome, people tried to force him to make a sacrifice to Mars, the god of war. As a devout Christian, he refused, and fled to Brittany. A Roman army pursued him, on the emperor’s orders. Cornelius pleaded with God to help him. And God transformed the soldiers into stones.”

“And what’s your theory?” Now Dupin asked, after all.

“In my opinion, it was all about a holistic way of thinking and feeling, of man and earth, like with the Druids. And about the forces of nature and of life. Before so-called reason made people blind and deaf. There are powerful force fields at work here. People felt that even back then. They marked the force fields that unleash monstrous things in people.”

“Like the urge to commit murder?”

“Purifications. Transitions. Impulses. Movements forward.”

It sounded brutal.

“Immense energies circulate here, prompting unforeseen occurrences. Universal, cosmic energies. They draw tens of thousands of people to Carnac each year. Animals steer clear of this site, by the way, you won’t find a bird here, not even insects, nothing.”

They had now reached Jeanne. Tall, bright grasses grew around her. Here too, Trotter had placed three tripods with three identical cameras. It was bizarre: objectively, of course, Jeanne resembled her beloved, Jean, an upright stone jutting out of the earth. Jeanne was located on a gentle slope, a little more pointed at the top, and slightly smaller than Jean. But it was the same stone, or at least the same primal stone. Similarly weathered and marked, similarly organic. And yet the impact was completely different: Jean stuck out, Jeanne blended in. Jean made an audacious impression, Jeanne suggested harmony. But she too seemed to keep the heat at bay. Dupin even thought he noticed a gentle breeze.

“Can you feel the forces?”

Luckily Trotter didn’t seem to expect an answer.

“The important thing is that Jean and Jeanne belong together.” He headed toward the first camera. “In connection with the main menhirs of Carnac, they form the same triangle with the same aspect ratios.”

He immediately got to work: the adjusting of the camera.

“The force field starts here. Here on the island. With Jean and Jeanne. It’s they who open the space. Another dimension. Negatively skewed.”

In a disconcerting way, Trotter’s words echoed Riwal’s image of the island traveling through space. Dupin felt an urgent need to bring the conversation to an end. “Did you speak to Patric Provost about your concerns for Jean and Jeanne when you met him? That they need protecting, I mean.”

“At the time I didn’t know it was his land.”

“And he didn’t know you’d sent these letters to the mayor.”

“No.”

“Okay, monsieur, thank you for your help.”

Dupin glanced at his watch. It was eight o’clock. He would be on time. Wherever the table was reserved. He was glad, even though he was just starting to feel a little better.

“The sunset’s going to be spectacular,” murmured Trotter, his gaze fixed on the sky.

Dupin pulled his cap down and turned to go. “Have a nice evening, monsieur.”

“And you.”

Dupin walked toward the road. His bright orange car soon came into view. With every step he took away from Jeanne, it became hotter, and the unease returned. It was an awful feeling.

Nolwenn picked up immediately.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Commissaire, you—”

“Nolwenn, do me a favor.” Dupin was in a hurry. “I’d like you to do some digging on this Manuel Trotter. See what you can find.”

“Are you thinking of anything specific?” Nolwenn, as always, was immediately on the ball.

“No.” Dupin paused, struggling to concentrate. “I just met with him. He mentioned a significant inheritance. Perhaps…”

Dupin had to brake sharply; he had driven around the bend far too quickly.

“Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Everything’s okay, Nolwenn. Trotter mentioned an inheritance, perhaps there’s something on that. Or things that might connect him with Nantes.” The thing with Nantes was a shot in the dark, but right now they had to try everything.

The cap had blown off his head, and now lay, together with the water bottle, in the footwell on the passenger side.

“You think he might be the perpetrator? Back then—and now too?”

“I don’t know.”

An honest answer.

“No problem, we’ll be hot on his heels. It’s so brazen, abducting someone right in front of your nose, Monsieur le Commissaire. I mean, really.”

Dupin hadn’t yet looked at it like that. It was shameful that it could happen; they simply hadn’t paid enough attention.

“The poor man. If the perpetrator had got the money from Provost, perhaps he wouldn’t even have tried it with Zinc. Is the brother going to pay?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to order the carré d’agneau, by the way, the salted lamb, with fresh peas and mint.”

A markedly abrupt change of subject. Admittedly in the direction that Dupin’s body and imagination had been moving for hours now. But for precisely that reason, it was unbearable. And of course he would order the lamb, they had been talking about the Belle-Île sheep since lunchtime today, so he had no choice.

Without noticing, he floored the gas pedal again.

“Riwal told me where you’re dining tonight. As a starter, have the tartar of freshly caught lieu jaune with the heavenly Pata Negra ham—or, and it’s for you to decide”—on this point, at least, it seemed he had a choice—“the warm salad of skate and homegrown garden vegetables. Perhaps—”

“Riwal texted that the restaurant is right in the harbor of Sauzon, on the western side.” Dupin wanted to make sure.

“The Restaurant du Phare, exactly. At the end of the inner quay. You can’t miss it. The tables are arranged right around the small lighthouse. You couldn’t imagine a more picturesque setting.”

“I…”

Dupin almost had to do another emergency brake; he had been going too quickly again. He wasn’t feeling well. His blood sugar must be incredibly low.

“Drive carefully, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

The car had groaned loudly, it wasn’t equipped for this kind of driving style.

“It’s fine, Nolwenn.”

“If you say so.”

A right turn lay ahead. Sauzon, promised the road sign.

The road now began to slope gently. In soft curves, it led down to the coast. Dupin saw everything as though through a veil. On the right-hand side, a long ria, making its way inland. On the left-hand side, the little town had already come into view.

“Right, Monsieur le Commissaire, you’d best concentrate on the road! Ken emberr! And: Debrit ervat!”

This expression he knew: Bon appétit.

“Thank you. Speak later, Nolwenn.”

She had already hung up. For the bends in the little town, especially with the stiff steering wheel, he really did need both hands.

A few minutes later—having, in a stroke of good fortune, found a parking spot directly by the quay—Dupin strode across to the terrace of Restaurant du Phare.

“Over here, boss.”

Dupin looked to the side. Riwal was waving at him.

Le Menn, Kadeg, Cosqueric, and he were sitting at the last table at the far end of the quay, which stretched into the harbor basin, directly beneath the brilliantly white lighthouse. It was around five or six meters tall and topped with a green cast-iron balustrade. The pretty dome and vertical struts around the 360-degree glass beneath were painted in the same color.

Dupin reached for the bread basket, which was already considerably plundered, before he even took a seat. He was relieved to have made it here; it had been far from a given. At one stage he had even thought he was seeing stars. He ate the first two bites of baguette just as it was; only on the third mouthful did he pause to remember the butter. Beurre au piment d’Espelette.

“We were much the same when we arrived too,” commented Riwal understandingly.

Dupin looked around for a waiter.

“Someone will be across in a moment, boss.”

“I very much hope so,” added Kadeg, who looked unusually jittery. His pupils were enlarged; probably he was suffering from low blood sugar too.

“The search on the island is going to plan, Commissaire,” the head of the island’s gendarmerie bravely began. “We’re carrying out road checks at strategically important spots, shifting them continually, and four teams are working their way toward the center of the island from the northwest and southeast. Bangor and its environs will be the final ones. My colleagues are speaking with as many residents as possible.”

“The needle in the haystack,” commented Le Menn drily, but without sarcasm.

“So far there haven’t been any reports of suspicious incidents or persons from the docks here on the island or the two neighboring islands,” the island commander continued, “and the same goes for the surrounding harbors on the mainland. But of course, we can’t search the boats everywhere.”

“How did the conversation with Manuel Trotter go, boss?”

Dupin put the fourth and final piece of baguette in his mouth and hastily drank down his glass of water. He was already feeling a little better. Briefly, he summarized his talk with the menhir researcher. “Nolwenn’s finding out what she can on him,” he concluded, taking his cap off briefly and running his hand across his forehead. Any hopes that the weather might begin to cool down had been dashed.

“Great, boss. And Jean and Jeanne? What did you think?”

“They’ve moved closer again. One point seven centimeters in just a year.”

“What?”

Riwal’s face lost all color, and he’d already looked pale.

“One point seven centimeters. Measured with a laser.”

“Did Trotter take the measurements himself?” Riwal’s brow was deeply furrowed, his voice brittle.

“He did.”

The inspector gave Dupin a piercing look. “You know what that means?”

A lively woman in her late thirties appeared at their table:

“Bonsoir, here are the menus. Would you like an aperitif?”

“A glass of Quincy, please,” Dupin blurted out.

“For me too, please.” Riwal.

“A large beer.” Cosqueric’s eyes lit up.

“Same for me,” Le Menn agreed.

“And me.” Kadeg’s turn came last.

“And a petit café,” Dupin completed the order, adding, just to be sure, “before the food.”

“With pleasure!” The woman headed off with a friendly smile. Seemingly she was one of those waitresses whom Dupin deeply admired, the ones who could remember entire orders. The ravenous group immediately turned their attention to the menus, and for a while, there was a reverent silence.

The waitress returned with a large tray and placed the drinks on the table: “Et voilà! I’ll be back in a moment to take your order…”

“We already know what we’re having.” Kadeg sounded almost panicked.

“Okay, what’ll it be?”

Everyone looked at Le Menn.

“The grilled goat’s cheese with crab meat and pear, please, then the skate wing with capers and parsley and the homemade Belle-Île potato puree”—she raced through her order, making it hard to follow—“and, for dessert, the raspberry and pistachio millefeuille.” The expression on her four colleagues’ faces was one of euphoric approval. If Le Menn was setting the standard like that, no one had to restrain themselves. It was one of her many wonderful qualities; she ate heartily, even though you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She had never been “caught with a stealthy salad,” as Nolwenn put it. And she wasn’t done yet: “And first of all I’d like a plate of bulots and bigorneaux.” The small and large sea snails. Her closing sentence revealed her motivation: “They’ll come right away.”

“For all of us, please.” Riwal immediately picked up on the idea. “Bring a large portion for everyone. And more of this delicious baguette.”

“Someone’s hungry!” laughed the waitress. One by one, she took the other orders, all of which were delivered at a similarly breathless pace, and it was soon Dupin’s turn: “The lieu jaune tartare with Pata Negra ham, followed by the island salt lamb with peas and mint, and a glass of the red Languedoc to accompany it. But first, another glass of the white.”

He had emptied the first glass in just three gulps while the others ordered.

“Or,” he’d had a better idea, “perhaps just bring a bottle.”

“And another beer for me,” Cosqueric added.

“And me,” Le Menn agreed.

“Perfect.” The waitress walked away happily.

The fraught silence was broken only when she returned, almost instantaneously, with the bulots and bigorneaux. Served with lemon mayonnaise, they were infinitely delicious. The slight punch they had, and the sensation of having the entire ocean in your mouth, was wonderful. Dupin felt himself starting to relax. Perhaps it was just the effect of the cold wine on his desperately empty stomach, but it didn’t matter.

“Boss, I guarantee you, this is the most beautiful spot on the island.”

Dupin looked around. The pretty white tables, of which there were fifteen at most, were generously arranged at the end of the quay, together with comfortable chairs with blue-and-white-checked cushions. Alongside their table, he spotted an ensemble of four or five large red-and-blue boxes containing greenish transparent fishing nets and pink buoys that shimmered in the evening sun. This was a working quay; not two meters away lay one of the coastal fishing boats. The quay was paved with slate—you certainly couldn’t accuse the Bellilois of not putting their slate to good use. Every table had a view of the Atlantic; it was like sitting on the deck of a ship. The little town of Sauzon was a vivid collage of many colors. The neat houses followed the course of the ria, as in Le Palais, everything directly on the water. Without a doubt, Sauzon would win every competition for “the most beautiful quay town in France.” And that was without being too picturesque, or feeling staged.

“Is there any update on Provost’s neighbors’ finances? Or the mayor’s?” Dupin turned to Cosqueric, who had just fished out the last bulot.

“As far as we can tell, no one’s recently had any change in financial circumstances, neither for the better nor worse. Nothing the banks or notaries know about, let’s put it like that.”

“And yet it’s the deciding factor,” commented Kadeg, who was looking a little calmer now. “The motive is clearly financial. The perpetrator wants money, quickly. And a lot of it.”

“The fact they want money doesn’t necessarily mean they’re in difficulty. Perhaps they just want to score a coup. To never have to worry about money again,” Le Menn interjected.

“But they must be pretty desperate if they’ve continued immediately after the failed blackmailing, and with a kidnapping, at that.”

Kadeg had phrased it in an unnecessarily laborious way, but it was a good point.

“Here’s the next round of drinks.” The waitress came over to their table and distributed them without further ado.

“And the baguette.”

The sun was slowly making its way toward the horizon, even though it still had quite a distance to cover. The deeper it sank, the more the colors gained intensity. The most wonderful part of the day was beginning.

“I’m planning to head back to Islonk,” Dupin informed the group, without having any particular addressee in mind. His notebook lay open before him. So far, he hadn’t written much. “Does anyone know what time Goulou is open till?”

“In summer, to eleven o’clock. Otherwise, it’s nine o’clock.” Cosqueric knew his stuff. “It’s a hidden gem. Generally only locals go there. Almost every village has a bar like it. Sometimes outsiders don’t even realize they’re there.”

Dupin was familiar with them. They felt more like the hosts’ living room, so much so that you almost didn’t dare venture in. And that’s how it felt inside too: familiar, private. Everyone knew one another. The more remote the region, the closer people were, spending the autumn and winter together in particular. Evening after evening, lots of wine, cider, beer, and Lambig. Or even whisky. An age-old Breton institution.

“Tomorrow is servir un bon day,” added Cosqueric dreamily.

Riwal beamed. “Boss, I don’t think you’ve encountered this before.”

“What?” The commissaire had no idea what they were talking about.

“The custom originates from a time when coffee was still very rare and expensive. A few of the affluent Acadians imported the beans from Saint-Malo.”

Dupin had heard about it during his last case in Saint-Malo. It was the Malouin corsairs who had first brought coffee to Europe.

“It’s an age-old tradition where friends meet once a week to brew coffee together. Serve a good one. And it’s still brewed in exactly the same way today.”

Dupin felt a flush of excitement. It sounded fantastic.

“The whole day?”

“From midday onward. That’s when they open, anyway.”

The waitress hurried over with the starters: “I’m back! The kitchen was extra quick.”

There were audible sighs of relief.

Dupin immediately turned his attention to the food. The taste of his favorite ham mingled with that of the lieu jaune. Accompanied by oil, lemon, fleur de sel, and white pepper, a sensation; just the idea alone was magnificent! Dupin’s gaze swept over the inner harbor, the port de plaisance, where dozens of small boats, sailboats, and motorboats were moored to colorful buoys, dancing light-footed on the water. The sea was smooth, but even here the tides could create strong currents. If you turned around—this locale truly was unique—you could see the outer harbor, which was reserved for larger boats and, above all, for the fishermen. This basin too, at the end of the ria, was shielded by quay walls and marked with small lighthouses.

Cosqueric’s cell phone suddenly interrupted the meditative tranquility. Grumbling, he stood up and took a few steps to the side.

“Okay, yes. I understand … Yes … Keep going … I’ll see you then.”

He returned to the table.

“They’ve now reached Samzun, Borduro, and Bonor in the east. So far, there’s nothing of note. No one in the hamlets there has noticed anything suspicious.”

“The needle in the haystack…” Le Menn repeated.

Cosqueric’s attention was already back on his starter.

“Has anyone heard anything more about the dog? Louis?” Dupin laid the fork back on his plate after the final bite.

Heads shook around the table.

“The perpetrator killed him first. How barbaric.” Kadeg was a dog lover; he and his wife had two well-trained greyhounds, who always went everywhere with the Kadeg family; along with Anne and Conan, the twins.

As Dupin’s strength slowly flowed back, so too, annoyingly, did his increasing dissatisfaction with the state of the investigation. A man had been murdered and another had been kidnapped, his life now in danger. Dupin had no illusions; he knew the statistics. This kind of thing usually didn’t end well. It was hard to bear: while they were sitting here, Captain Albert Zinc was being held in captivity somewhere. And they didn’t have a single solid lead. In all honesty, they were completely in the dark.

“The captain has an alibi for this morning, right?” Le Menn asked the question in a casual tone.

“He does,” Cosqueric replied. “He was on the ferry at six fifteen sharp, and it left half an hour later. I’ve checked it all out. There’s no way he murdered Provost.”

“How far is your house from here, Riwal?”

Dupin had put the overnight stay out of his mind, and had only just remembered.

“Ten minutes’ walk. Toward Pointe des Poulains, where Sarah Bernhardt’s house is.”

“And where do the dockworkers and fishermen here in Sauzon drink their café in the mornings, Riwal?”

“At Le Tilleul, on the square in front of the church.”

Dupin made a note to get his coffee there tomorrow. A calm moment to himself.

“Do you know Madame Corbel?” Dupin asked Cosqueric, who was sitting opposite him.

“Not personally. But she’s a real institution on the island. Almost as eccentric as Sarah Bernhardt herself. Let’s put it like this: she thinks a great deal of herself.”

“Who actually finances this museum and its activities? Madame Corbel’s activities, I mean?”

“The funding comes from various sources. From the island, the département, the Conseil Régional. But also from private donors. Female donors in particular. Madame Corbel knows a few famous actresses. That’s what she’s most smug about.”

“I’m planning to pay her a visit tomorrow morning.”

Dupin had already decided to that afternoon, following the brief conversation with her on the Goulou terrace.

“In her opinion, the museum never has enough money. Even though Bernhardt was the ‘biggest star of all time.’ She always sets her sights so high. She even wants to start a drama school here.”

“How was it in the Nantes case, Kadeg?” Dupin turned to his second inspector. “Was there some kind of advance threat there too? Like with Provost’s dog?”

“If so, I would have mentioned it,” Kadeg grumbled.

The waitress cleared away the plates, which gleamed brightly as though they were freshly out of the dishwasher.

“We need to update one another on our findings, in detail,” demanded Kadeg. He was notorious for his dislike of not being sufficiently informed. “For example, you haven’t told us anything about your flight with the mayor, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Dupin had to admit it wasn’t such a bad idea. They had all been occupied with different lines of inquiry. It could only help; a kind of preliminary summary. Sometimes that could spark new ideas. Review the state of affairs, as miserable as it may be. What’s more, even if the kitchen staff continued at their swift pace, it would be some time before dessert and the cafés.

“Okay then,” began Dupin …

Just outside Islonk, Dupin parked the Méhari at the side of the road; he would walk the remaining distance. It would be good for him after the long dinner and wine. Riwal and Le Menn had already driven to Riwal’s place to make a few phone calls from there. Kadeg, together with Cosqueric, had gone to join the group of gendarmes who had arrived in Sauzon.

Nothing new had come out of their conversation in the restaurant. Nonetheless, it had felt good to pull the various elements of the case together as much as possible.

Here in Islonk, too, the world was bathed in the blazing, intense shades of orange the sun had chosen for its setting this evening. It was the great color spectacle the menhir researcher had predicted. The sun had displayed the entire spectrum of tones and nuances that people usually described as orange, but which in reality consisted of dozens of individual colors: from melon yellow, dahlia yellow, saffron, daffodil, and signal yellow, to the pastel orange and bright orange immediately encircling the sun. Without—and this was hard to comprehend—ever slipping into red. The orange tones were neatly organized in concentric circles around the sun; farther away, the yellow components increased, almost as if the colors were relaxing. They were artistic formations; Dupin was sure he’d seen them in one of Monet’s paintings. And it wasn’t just the sky that was orange, but the whole world, all the people and things. A peaceful orange that bore no resemblance to the colors of a wildfire. Here, in the small valley of Islonk, the long bay of Vazen, it rested on the grass, the ferns and moss, the lichens, the cliffs and rocks, the sand of the bay—and on the tranquil sea. Orange symphonies.

Only now that the sun had set was the temperature generously relenting a little. At last. It was a worthy ending to a true summer’s day. Dupin loved the special mood on evenings like this. And there weren’t many of them in the year, that’s why they made the summer stand out. He longed for them all year round.

This evening, though, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.

Byn and Margot Fidelin were just saying good-bye to the last guest when Dupin stepped into the bar.

“See you soon.”

The man walked toward and then past Dupin.

“A friend from your home city, Monsieur le Commissaire,” Margot Fidelin greeted him at the bar. “A Parisian, he arrived this afternoon. He’s staying in Kerguelen, in the Monet house. He’s been coming here every summer for thirty years now.” She seemed more than a little surprised to see the commissaire back so soon, and at this late hour—it was a quarter past ten.

“Now we’re talking!” Byn Fidelin chuckled in a conspiratorial tone. In other words: I know why you’ve come, or at least, that was how Dupin imagined it.

“Now there’s no excuse.”

Dupin liked jovial people, perhaps also because he envied them, being far from jovial himself. Byn Fidelin also had something bearlike to him. A cozy, imposing physique, and he seemed at peace with every bit of it. His eyes gleamed like a child’s. He walked toward the bar.

“Take a seat outside, Monsieur le Commissaire. Agnès and Tenom are there too. In times like these,” Margot Fidelin paused, “it’s good to stay together a bit longer, not to be alone.”

“Would it be possible,” Dupin turned to her husband, “to get another petit café, monsieur?”

Dupin had admittedly had one at dessert, to accompany a crème brûlée with lavender from the island, but he could easily drink another.

Byn Fidelin nodded, already busying himself behind the bar.

“Come with me.” Margot Fidelin strode outside through the open door. Dupin followed. And stepped once again into a different, wondrous world.

It was the same nature, the same landscape, but the terrace and benches had been arranged for one sole purpose—namely to gaze and be captivated—and gave the breathtaking panorama the hint of being staged; as though the entire scene had been invented purely for this delightful view.

Although Dupin had already added Goulou to the sacred list of his favorite places that afternoon, he now did it definitively. Ideally, of course, he would have liked to sit here on the bench alone, or with Claire, for hours on end, mostly in silence, with a glass of wine, then a whisky, until deep into the night, watching the gradual fading of the light. The transformation of the day world into the night world, the celebratory reemergence of the stars. Above all he would have enjoyed the endlessly warm and soft nighttime breeze, a unique, delicious element that made a person move completely differently. He really should come here with Claire someday. But how often had he said that when discovering new, wonderful places—and yet they had never actually gotten around to it. Their life together had been racing past for some time. Dupin didn’t know exactly how to phrase it, perhaps it was more that their two lives had been racing past. Over the past year Claire had needed to work increasingly long hours, and traveled for work more and more. Congresses, meetings. She was in the process of becoming an international leader in her field. Twice already she had been invited abroad, to Brussels, and to Boston, where she had spent a few weeks the previous year. And where she’d befriended a man called Sam, who was also a cardiologist. They were in regular contact. Dupin wasn’t jealous, that wasn’t his nature, but he did think they were seeing a lot of each other. Seeing, speaking, e-mailing. “We all see each other at the congresses, it’s a close circle,” was Claire’s unfazed commentary. But Dupin, if he was honest, knew that the situation ultimately had nothing to do with Claire’s work; it was something else. It certainly wasn’t that he and Claire were in a crisis, that would have been an exaggeration. But still. Dupin had thought moving in together would bring about something new, but that hadn’t been the case. He sometimes also felt like Claire was waiting for something that remained unvoiced. Perhaps he was just imagining it. And perhaps he was the one waiting for something.

Agnès Griffon was sitting with her back to the wall of the house. Next to her on the bench was one of the extravagant whisky glasses and a bright-yellow water glass, for sure one of the glasses he still needed to buy for Claire. On the other bench, which was arranged at a right angle, sat Tenom Burlot, with the same combination of glasses next to him.

Margot Fidelin sat down next to Agnès Griffon.

“It’s so hard to believe, all of this.” Margot seemed lost in thought. “Our little Islonk, a crime scene. The victim of a crime.”

Dupin sat down too, on Burlot’s bench.

“Are there any suspects yet, Monsieur le Commissaire? Or at least some clues?” Margot asked.

“No.” Regrettably, that was the truth. Still.

“Do you think we’re in danger? All of us here?”

This afternoon she hadn’t seemed nervous at all.

“So far, the perpetrator seems to be targeting individuals who have, or their families have, a considerable fortune.”

He was unable to give a fully reassuring answer.

“Voilà.” Byn Fidelin appeared in front of Dupin with the café in one hand and a whisky glass in the other. An extremely generous pour.

“Les Six Reines de Belle-Île”—Byn Fidelin’s facial expression conveyed his devotion—“intense smoke, heather, gorse, with notes of caramel and iodine. The whole island’s in here.”

Dupin couldn’t resist.

“I want people to taste the Atlantic. We make sea whiskies here.”

Byn Fidelin sat down next to the commissaire with a glass of his own.

“Perhaps it’s inappropriate, but I still think we should toast.” Margot Fidelin attempted a smile, her light-blond hair even blonder in the twilight, and her astonishingly youthful features stood out even more prominently. She had changed her dress; it was a muted orange, fitting for the sunset.

“We’ll drink to the captain, to Albert. That he’ll soon be back here with us. And to Patric. Even though he was an obnoxious person, you wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She raised her glass.

Everyone followed her lead. Dupin too, after a brief moment of hesitation.

He took a long gulp.

“Fabulous,” he commented in Byn Fidelin’s direction, after a few moments of reverent silence. It wasn’t an exaggeration.

He took another sip.

Amid the late-evening stillness, Dupin had already noticed a loud, high-pitched sound. Cicadas, quite clearly. Like an evening in the south, on Sardinia, Corsica, or Crete.

“Cask strength, fifty-two percent, a really old barley variety, not that profitable, but the best: Golden Promise,” Byn Fidelin murmured. Slowly, deliberately rotating the whisky in the glass, he seemed to be in his own world. “From our Celtic brothers in Scotland. That’s where I studied. The secret of whisky distilling is that there’s more than one secret. And every little thing impacts everything. The grain, the water, the vessel, the temperature, the time, the barrel, and the roast … I want to make headstrong whiskies. Free and without compromise, that’s the slogan.”

Byn Fidelin’s poetic conviction echoed with a fitting solemnity.

“Do any of you know Monsieur Zinc’s brother?” Dupin turned to the group. “Matthieu Zinc? He lives in Bordeaux.”

“Albert only spoke of him occasionally.” Margot was the first to respond. “He came to visit once, I remember. I exchanged a few words with him one evening, that was all. But it must have been two or three years ago.” She sighed. “Albert sometimes visits him in Bordeaux. Once a year, I think. This is all so terrible.”

“I never met him,” Agnès Griffon spoke up.

Dupin used the time to drink the café.

“Nor did I,” Tenom added.

“Can you think of anyone who might have had some dispute with the captain? Did he have enemies?”

A unanimous shaking of heads.

“I heard you went to see the menhir researcher, Monsieur Burlot.” Dupin turned suddenly to the sheep farmer.

“‘Went to see’ is an exaggeration. I happened to run into him. We were bringing a flock back in.”

Tenom Burlot was wearing exactly the same clothes as that morning; it looked as though he had come straight from work. In this weather, the tall black rubber boots would drive Dupin mad. The baggy, greenish T-shirt looked even dirtier than earlier today.

“Did you talk to each other?”

“We just greeted each other.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“I said something about the heat. And Marie wished him a lovely evening. My colleague, whom you saw this morning.”

Manuel Trotter hadn’t mentioned she was there.

Dupin addressed the whole group again: “Did any of you happen to see Monsieur Trotter this morning? When he left the house here?”

“No.” Once again Margot Fidelin took charge of answering.

“Or this afternoon? He came back here then.”

“No,” repeated Madame Fidelin.

“Do you know of anybody on the island who’s in extreme financial difficulty?”

“Do you mean something specific?” Agnès Griffon asked.

“No, just in general. Somebody who’s struggling at the moment.”

“People generally keep that kind of thing to themselves.” Margot, once again.

Dupin could feel Les Six Reines de Belle-Île, the six queens of the island, unfurling their influence. He drank the last sip, stood up, and walked to the edge of the terrace, pausing in front of an impressive oleander. A wild, tantalizing blend of scents lay in the air. Lavender, thyme, rosemary, sage, and oregano. The orange in the sky had darkened further, especially in the bay, and was now fading into the night. Soon the same would happen in the west. The details of the world were disappearing; contours, silhouettes, and haziness taking over. Soon, they too would disappear.

“When do you usually go to sleep?” Dupin turned back to the group.

“You want to know when we go to bed?” asked Margot Fidelin in a surprised, albeit not unfriendly tone.

“Exactly. You, for example?”

“The same as my husband. I mean, at the same time. Usually around eleven thirty. Always soon after we close up here.”

“And you?” Dupin turned to Madame Griffon.

“Earlier. Never later than eleven thirty, generally.”

“I go even earlier. I sometimes have to head out really early in the morning.” The sheep farmer completed the round of replies.

“And in this weather, these temperatures, do you sleep with the windows open?”

Dupin was walking up and down the terrace. All gazes rested on him. Dupin realized he was still wearing the cap. He didn’t care.

“We do.” Margot Fidelin drank a sip of whisky. “All year round.”

“Which direction does your bedroom face, madame?”

“You do ask amusing questions, Monsieur le Commissaire. It’s right here, next to the terrace,” she pointed along the house, “overlooking the bay.”

“Madame Griffon?”

“At the moment, in summer, I leave the terrace door ajar at night. My room leads directly into the garden.”

“And you, Monsieur Burlot?”

“I never sleep with the window closed. It’s always wide open at night.”

“Hmm.”

Dupin turned away and took a few steps onto the meadow, toward the blue boat. From this side of the Fidelins’ property, there was a good view of the back half of Provost’s pilotage house and garden, enclosed by the low stone wall. The grass was wet, Dupin noted; someone must have watered it recently.

He came back to the terrace.

“Then I’m sure you would all hear Provost’s dog if he barked at night. Monsieur Trotter thinks he might even have heard him the night before last.”

“That’s not possible.” Margot Fidelin looked thoughtful. “As we said, we’ve not seen or heard him for at least a week.”

“Exactly,” Agnès Griffon agreed.

“Me neither.” Burlot shook his head.

“I see.”

Dupin had paused in front of Byn Fidelin, who looked like he was melded to the bench.

“I heard there’s a special coffee here tomorrow.” Dupin abruptly changed the subject. The news had unleashed the wilds of his imagination.

“There is indeed, Monsieur le Commissaire. Un bon.”

“From what time exactly?”

“Around midday.”

Dupin would have preferred to come early in the morning. It sounded like a magic potion. Like the Gauls’.

“Okay. That’s all for this evening, mesdames, messieurs. Just one last thing, a formality. Where were you this afternoon between three and five o’clock? All of you.”

“Here. Where else? We were distilling. My husband and I.”

“Le Grand Dérangement. The great disorder, the great turmoil, that’s the name of the new whisky; woody, peaty, spicy, for autumn and winter evenings. I think it’s going to be a particularly good one.”

With that, Byn Fidelin stood up and disappeared through the door to the bar.

“I was with the sheep initially, at Plage des Grands Sables. Where you visited us at lunchtime today.” It was Tenom Burlot’s turn to speak. “In the late afternoon I went to the meadows at Borderun, which stretch from the ocean to the menhirs, that’s where we keep another part of the flock. A third, at Locmaria.”

“When exactly did you arrive there?”

“At five o’clock.”

“With your colleague?”

“She was already there. She went across at about one o’clock.”

“And after that, were you alone at Plage des Grands Sables?”

“From about three o’clock, yes.”

So Burlot had no alibi whatsoever.

“And we,” Dupin nodded to Agnès Griffon, “were on the plane together.”

That, by contrast, was a thoroughly solid alibi.

“What are your thoughts on the project, by the way? And on the flight today?” Dupin took another step toward Madame Griffon.

“The project is groundbreaking. And the foundations for the wind farm being put in place is an important step.”

She wasn’t the type to enthuse.

“Did you have to apply to lead the project?”

“It fell to me automatically, given I’m responsible for the island’s energy supply. And for the underwater cables, which, at the moment, we still use to get our electricity.”

“I see. And you’re also a pilot, I heard, madame.”

“Yes. I love flying. But I don’t go very often now. The last time was around two years ago.”

Byn Fidelin returned. With a bottle in his hand.

“I’m sure I’m not actually allowed to do this. A bribery attempt,” he smiled, “but here you go.”

He held the bottle out toward Dupin.

“Have another before you go to sleep. Les Six Reines de Belle-Île will have you sleeping like a baby. And dreaming wonderfully, I promise.”

Dupin hesitated briefly. But only briefly. Then, decisively, he pulled out his wallet, took out a fifty-euro note, and laid it on the bench.

“This way it’s fine.”

The promise of sleep was just too tempting. He had utter faith in the six queens.

Riwal’s abode was an old, charming stone house in the typical island style. And in a spectacular location.

They were sitting outside on the terrace.

The view was extraordinary. Even now that darkness had fallen, and despite the sparse illumination of the delicate crescent moon that had just risen above the ocean. The wild and densely planted garden bordered directly on the sea; the house was less than ten meters from the water. Sea pines, majestic, tall specimens, in large groups. And poplars. As well as palms, hibiscus, agave, cacti, and other exotic plants. Compared with Islonk, it was a completely different world, a world of perfect tranquility. The view stretched all along the coast, to Sauzon, with its atmospheric, nocturnal glow of lights. Sauzon was a dream. Just like the whole island; Dupin could fully understand Riwal’s love for it. The lighthouses, shining green and red on the quay walls, indicated the safe route into both harbors. Today, boats had moored for the night in front of the outer quay wall too, and people were sitting out on the decks around small tables, enjoying the warm summer night with wine and Lambig. By day, and with good visibility, you would be able to see far across the sea to the mainland, at least on days without the brume de mer.

Dupin had been allocated a cozy room on the first floor; a small one, but for him alone, and for all its frugality it had one special luxury: a window with a sea view. The bed was incredibly narrow; the mattress alarmingly saggy. A miniature desk and chair, with bedding and a hand towel resting on top, had also been squeezed into the tiny space. The bathroom, and this is where things got tricky, was shared. With Kadeg, Riwal, and Le Menn. On the ground floor there was a generous living room, an open-plan kitchen, a pantry, and a washroom.

Dupin had given the others a detailed account—by his standards, at least—of the conversations on the terrace of Goulou. After that, Kadeg, Riwal, Le Menn, and Cosqueric had given him a short update of their own. Naturally, there hadn’t been many developments on their side since dinner. All the police troops on the island had just reported back to Cosqueric, but the situation remained unchanged. They hadn’t found any clues that could be connected with the kidnapping and potential whereabouts of Zinc. Cosqueric had spoken with the owner of the newsagent in Sauzon, some restaurant owners, service staff, and the harbormaster. Nothing.

It was almost midnight, but Dupin wasn’t yet willing to end the day. They still didn’t have anything firm to go on, even though Dupin had just felt a certain feverish tension as he walked up and down the terrace at Goulou. Without having the slightest clue what had caused it. This tension was sometimes, though regrettably only sometimes, a good sign. But perhaps it was just a side effect of the heat. Or the whisky.

One thing was sure: all the people they had met so far who were connected to Provost had a motive to want him gone. And they would all, of their own admission, welcome an additional million euros, even though no one seemed to be in acute financial need. And yet there must be some kind of extraordinary situation, as Kadeg had pointed out, if somebody had immediately launched into a new attempt, after the failed blackmailing of Provost, to get the same sum through kidnapping Zinc. The matter was complicated by the fact that there wasn’t necessarily a personal relationship between the perpetrator and two victims. The perpetrator would only need to know they were in possession of a lot of money. Dupin and his colleagues didn’t have many options; they would have to concentrate on the money handover. If it came to that. It was a desperate situation.

“Did the forensics team say anything else? Were there any fingerprints on the letters to Provost? Or in Zinc’s car?”

“Unfortunately not,” Cosqueric muttered, taking a sip from his glass. Dupin had brought the whisky from Fidelin onto the terrace and poured a little for everybody.

“And is there anything else on the Acadians, Riwal? You were planning to ask around.”

“Nothing that would make me suspicious, boss. I asked whether the association was connected with the Smart Island Initiative. But it seems just as Monette Megret said, they’re supporting it conceptually, but not financially.”

“Whom did you speak with?”

“Quite a few people, but in particular with the treasurer, a cousin of my sister’s husband. He knows all the members. And really well, too.”

The way Riwal emphasized it, Dupin had no doubt.

“And he can’t think of anyone he would believe capable of an act like that?”

“The Acadians are everywhere, it seems,” mused Le Menn.

The exact same thing kept going through Dupin’s mind too.

“Provost and Zinc were … are … both members of numerous organizations. For sure there are some they’re both in, or rather, were. There’re so many of them on the island.”

Riwal still seemed uncomfortable with the suspicion of the Acadians.

“From time to time, there are accusations of mutual favoritism.” Riwal was visibly uncomfortable at his own words.

“What does that mean?” Dupin was all ears.

“Corruption? Accepting bribes? Mafia-like business practices?” Le Menn unapologetically escalated Dupin’s question.

“There’s never been a concrete confirmation of a violation,” Riwal retorted.

“The standard mafiosi response.” Kadeg took the same line as Le Menn.

“Of course, most of the Acadian families are well acquainted,” Cosqueric strove for a neutral tone, “and have been for generations. They have numerous social and business relationships with one another. The biggest construction manager on the island is also an Acadian, for example. I would say that nine of ten building projects granted on the island by other Acadians go to him.”

“All mafia,” Kadeg snapped: “numerous social and business relationships…”

Dupin knew what he meant, but he also knew what Cosqueric was trying to say.

“Have there ever been accusations against Patric Provost in this context? Bribes? Manipulation?”

“No.” An unambiguous response from Cosqueric. “But he played his power and monopoly positions uncompromisingly. With the sheep-breeding business, his property, and his fortune.”

“Nonetheless, I’d like you to look into both again.” Dupin closed the subject. “Anything else?”

“I just spoke on the phone with the island’s other mayors.” The commander leaned back, now looking rather exhausted. “I know all of them really well. I wanted to hear what they thought about the case. Whether they had any ideas.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I—”

Dupin’s cell phone rang.

Nolwenn.

Dupin stood up and took the call. He walked into the garden, toward the sea.

“So, Monsieur le Commissaire. Echu an devez, as the Bretons say! Finie la journée. That’s it for today. Just one more thing that Nevou and I stumbled across.”

“What is it?”

“This Trotter guy is part of a group of scientists who are founding a center for research into these stone wonders. They’re in the process of donating a home that will house the center. Oddballs, if you ask me.”

“And?”

“Guess where the center’s going to be!”

Dupin realized that he was now feeling utterly exhausted too.

“In Nantes!”

Dupin had reached the end of the garden. From here, the ground descended steeply for a few meters to a small, rocky plateau. Off to the right was a secluded sandy beach.

“Interesting.” Dupin had expressly asked Trotter about Nantes. “Do you think Trotter could be the donor for the center? With his inheritance?”

“Only ‘interesting’? We’ve been searching desperately for a connection to Nantes, haven’t we? This is the first one we’ve found.”

A somewhat vague link, in Dupin’s opinion.

“Is there anything else on Trotter? I’ll talk to him again.”

“Nothing else, no. Nevou and I will keep looking tomorrow, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“Good work, Nolwenn. I think we should all call it a day.”

“Try to get some sleep! You have to be completely on form the day after tomorrow!”

It took Dupin a moment to remember. His work anniversary. He really wasn’t in the mood for that right now …

“Noz vat.”

“Likewise, Nolwenn. Good night.”

In the blink of an eye, Dupin was back at the table. “I’m turning in.” He made an effort to sound friendly. “Le Tilleul is the name of the café in Sauzon, right?” This was important.

“That’s right, boss. The coffee there is good. If you don’t mind, we’ll come with you.”

“I … fine. Okay.”

It wasn’t quite what Dupin had had in mind.

“See you there at half past seven?” Riwal stood up too, giving the signal that it was time for everyone to make a move.

Dupin would just leave a little earlier, so he could have some time for himself.

“Half past seven. Do you have a map of the island, Riwal?” Dupin had been meaning to get one.

“Of course, boss. I’ll fetch it.”

“Good night then, everyone.” Cosqueric took his leave. “I’m heading home.”

“Good night.”

Three minutes later, Dupin closed the bedroom door behind him. He went straight to bed, with the window wide open, to let as much restorative sea air into the stuffy room as possible. And the twinkling of the stars, which had gradually appeared and now filled the night sky. He could hear the cicadas even in bed. And, from time to time, a long, drawn-out bleat: the sheep. The temperatures still hadn’t cooled; quite the opposite. It had to be twenty-five degrees, perhaps more. The island had traveled to the tropics for the night, that much was clear, taking its natives and last-minute guests along for the ride.

As a precaution, Dupin set the alarm clock for six thirty A.M. Shortly before he drifted off, reason and intellect having long since departed his mind, the memory returned of the lovely island feeling he’d had that morning. The idea of a wonderful little realm, all of one’s own, containing everything one could ever need.

The six queens unfurled their magic …

The Second Day

It wasn’t just one, no, but all of them.

They were all following him, they were all after him. Menhirs. Hundreds of meter-high stone monsters: alive, fast, agile. And they wanted one thing only: his life. He was guilty of a crime: not having believed in them. And it was true; their accusations were entirely justified.

They encircled him. They had ventured from all across the island, advancing, and he had tried to escape, but they kept appearing everywhere. Jeans and Jeannes. They had inched in closer and closer. Now they let out a kind of deep bleating that went right to his core. A torture in itself.

There was no escape. No way to fight back. No tricks. No superpowers. He would be crushed. A supernatural chorus commenced, clearly audible: “It’s us, the Acadians, the Acadians, the Acadians…” repeated endlessly. A shudder coursed through him. Then he felt cold, hard rock against his arms, which he had flung protectively around himself. The inevitable end was approaching. A celestial, even cosmic humming began. And look! The menhirs came to a halt, fell silent, then suddenly retreated and let him go. In the very next moment, they were gone, as though they had evaporated into thin air. All that remained was the deep, bizarre humming. And it gradually got louder. Dupin covered his ears, pressing his hands against them tightly, becoming more and more desperate.

Then he woke up.

It took a moment for Dupin to separate the nightmare from reality. In particular: the humming. Because it was still ongoing. And he slowly grasped that it came from this world’s reality. It was a ship, quite clearly. A very large ship.

The humming had woken him. Saved him.

He sat upright and looked out of the window. It was still dark, but no longer with the depth of night; an initial, tentative twilight had begun in the east. Over the horizon. A pre-dawn. The light gradually crept in, a silvery light that was now taking possession of more and more of the sky.

Dupin glanced at his watch: 6:17 A.M. It was too late to go back to sleep. He would shower and head out, so he could have some time alone as he’d planned.

At 6:55 A.M. he entered Le Tilleul.

He placed his order at the counter: two petits cafés, two croissants. The café was simple, pleasant, its façade painted sky blue, and had a terrace on the square in front of the village church, with a view of the bay and harbor. The terrace was still empty, and just a few people were sitting inside; dockworkers, it seemed. The whole place looked deserted and hadn’t yet come to life. Besides the noise from the bar and the shrieks of the coquettish seagulls over the docks, everything was silent. The kind of peace you only find by the sea, which magnanimously swallows all unnecessary sound. Dupin liked the unique atmosphere of early mornings, of the world beginning to stir.

“Voilà.”

A young, bleary-eyed man in a white T-shirt placed the cafés and a plate with the croissants in front of Dupin.

“And the newspapers, monsieur. Voilà.”

He disappeared again.

On the front page of Le Télégramme was a photo of Dupin getting into his orange Méhari at the harbor. Unbelievable! He hadn’t even noticed a photographer.

“Concarneau Commissaire Investigates on Belle-Île,” proclaimed the headline. That was something, at least. In the past, they had always written: “The Parisian Commissaire…” A photo of Provost was captioned with: “Sheep Baron Patric Provost Murdered.” The newspapers had gone to print too early to cover the Albert Zinc case; but online, on TV, and on the radio, it would be discussed all the more intensively.

Dupin had to admit he’d mostly forgotten about the sheep-breeding element. Should they have looked into it more rigorously? But how could any connection with the sheep business also explain Zinc’s kidnapping? He banished the newspapers to the neighboring table and drank the first café. Finally. Then he pulled out his notebook and the small map of the island, set them on the table, and drank the second café.

Dawn slowly began to break; the day was easing in gently. A bright, celestial gray blue had taken over the sky from the east, causing the final shimmer of the stars to disappear, and little by little the gray would now retreat, conceding the stage to the blue. But only once the sun made its appearance.

What were the most pressing questions? The priorities? Who would he be meeting this morning? The fact he was even asking these questions didn’t bode well.

He established a few details:

Madame Corbel: Expansion of Sarah Bernhardt museum, financing.

Mayor: Menhirs, Provost, menhir researcher’s complaints …

Louis, the dog?

Esoteric center in Nantes? Conversation with Trotter.

Call Zinc’s brother: Money, handover?

He beckoned the tired young man.

“Another one, please.” He gestured toward the empty cups.

He had just picked up his pen again when his cell phone rang. A withheld number. He swiftly took it.

“Yes?”

Noise, a whooshing sound. Then a woman’s voice: “Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Yes.”

“I have to speak with you. At once.”

Dupin sat bolt upright.

“Who is this?”

The connection was awful. He hadn’t been able to make out the voice. It sounded like the person was sitting in a car, and racing along at a dangerously high speed.

“Agnès Griffon,” now he could just about hear her, “we have to meet right away,” the rushing sound intensified, “at Pointe des Poulains.”

He jumped up.

“What’s…?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. We’ll meet in the parking lot.”

“Are you in danger, Madame Griffon? Is someone following you?” Moving at breakneck speed, he packed up his things, laid money on the table, and left the terrace.

“I think so. I’m almost there.”

She had hung up.

Dupin reached his car, jumped in, and started the engine. The Méhari lurched. He had already seen signs for Pointe des Poulains on the D25 a few times. It wasn’t far. Five minutes, perhaps.

He stepped on the gas pedal.

What on earth was going on here?

He had already reached the diagonal road. He accelerated to full speed. Reached for his phone.

“Riwal?”

The airstream was intense. Dupin had to yell into the phone.

“Boss? I can barely hear you!”

“Agnès Griffon is in danger. She wants to meet me right away at Pointe des Poulains. She thinks she’s being followed.”

“I…” Just a brief pause, then: “Got it, boss. We’re on our way.”

“Good.”

Meadows, fields, and trees raced past. The road was straight as an arrow. A village appeared. Deubord. Then a sign, something to do with Sarah Bernhardt. The northwestern end of the island seemed bleak and bare too.

Pointe des Poulains was signposted from here. Another kilometer.

Once again, he pushed the car to its very limit.

When the parking lot of the point came into view, Dupin slammed on the brakes. The car immediately began to skid, a deafening squeal set in, and he struggled to get it back under his control. He came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road, then stepped on the gas again. He drove across the parking lot, looking intently around him. It now occurred to him that he had no idea what car Agnès Griffon drove.

“Madame Griffon?” He began to call her name. “Hello?”

He repeated the calls.

Nothing.

No car. Not a soul to be seen. At least not here. There was another parking area on the other side of the thick hedge, so he steered around the narrow 180-degree bend, abusing the car once again. Something made a loud clatter and fell off.

Here too, there was nothing to be seen.

He reached the exit leading back to the road. From here, a narrow track that looked in a bad state led toward the point, but vehicles were prohibited. Behind the sign was another: Phare des Poulains—200 mètres.

He drove on a little, braked abruptly, looked around. Then he went into reverse and shot back, flooring the gas pedal. Agnès had quite clearly said the parking lot.

This time he left the car at the start of the lot and walked onto a dusty footpath that also led away from the parking lot and toward the point. The Atlantic lay on both sides; the island was really narrow here. A wild, jagged coast, a rugged chaos of rocks and ocean. No house, nothing, complete isolation.

He reached for his cell and dialed Griffon’s number. There was no answer.

Day had dawned in the east, and it was getting light in the west too, the sun just beneath the horizon. Soon it would advance above it, and finally rise.

What should he do?

“Damn it!”

Where was Agnès Griffon?

Should he drive back down the road? Was she still en route? No, that wasn’t possible; she’d said she was almost there. Were there back roads? He thought he remembered seeing at least one. An unsurfaced one.

He dashed back to the car.

When he’d slammed on the brakes just now, the map, along with the cap and the water bottle, had flown onto the floor in front of the passenger seat. If he was reading it correctly, there were two small side roads. Were they drivable? It was impossible to tell. One went north, the other south. The latter seemed to end in the middle of a field not far from here, before the final village. The road to the north led along the coast to the far end of the cape. Almost to the lighthouse.

He had to do something.

The engine roared dramatically, the wheels spinning once again. He headed toward the cape. To an elongated, final rock ledge. To the left was a short, pebbled path. It had to be the entrance to Sarah Bernhardt’s house; he’d seen it on the map. He braked. The house, a small fort, was clearly visible.

Nothing. No car, no Agnès Griffon.

He drove on.

But after just a short stretch, the road came to an end. After a tight, downward-sloping bend, it ran into the sand. An almost surreally beautiful double bay, with the turquoise sea on both sides; and nothing in between but a shimmering, white sandy beach and a few rocks.

The sun had risen now, though it was still gentle, softly illuminating the ocean, sand, and rocks. At the end of the land protrusion was an islet. And at the highest point, the proud lighthouse, the Phare des Poulains.

Dupin stopped the car on the sand. He leaped out and looked around.

“Damn!”

Where was she?

All at once, he heard the sound of an engine.

It had to be a car, racing down the road at far too high a speed. The vehicle wasn’t yet visible, and wouldn’t be until it rounded the bend to the beach. Suddenly, he heard screeching tires and a metallic clanking. The driver had slowed down too late, slamming on the brakes. It must have been a close call, but it made it around the tight bend.

Now Dupin saw it. A frog-green van, the team car. Riwal and the others. Riwal was behind the wheel. He braked again just before the bumper of Dupin’s Méhari.

Kadeg and Le Menn jumped out of the car with their guns drawn; Riwal followed a moment later, his weapon also at the ready.

“Where is she, boss? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find her.”

“She drives a Kadjar. Dark red. The little Renault SUV. She can get anywhere in it. But we’ve not seen it either. We didn’t see anyone. We just passed the parking lot.”

“She definitely said the parking lot?” Le Menn asked.

“I’m sure of it.”

“Then someone got to her first,” Kadeg concluded.

“God damn it!” Dupin pounded the hood of his car with his fist.

“Or she was being followed and kept driving.” Riwal’s voice tremored. His gaze shifted pointedly to the lighthouse, then to a spot at the end of the beach. “To hide.”

Dupin caught on to what Riwal was trying to tell him with his gaze. It was barely visible, but if you looked really closely there was a rocky path running alongside the islet. It probably led to the lighthouse.

Riwal dashed off, running onto the beach. Then he came to an abrupt halt.

“There are tire tracks! Fresh ones, definitely.”

And that wasn’t all.

“Here too! A second car.”

He stormed back to the van. Within seconds, they were all back in their cars. Dupin was the first to turn on the ignition. He sped across the beach toward the path, reached it. The tires kept going into a spin. Dupin felt like he had yesterday on the boat; deep, large potholes were making the wheels take off briefly and bump back down. The axles wouldn’t be able to take this for long.

After a few tight bends, the path went in a wide arc directly toward the lighthouse. But once again, there was nothing and nobody to be seen. No red Kadjar, nor any other cars.

Dupin stopped in front of the entrance to the lighthouse and got out. Moments later, the van reached the lighthouse too, but instead of slowing down it drove past and around it, across the dried-out meadow. The car disappeared from Dupin’s sight.

What was Riwal doing?

Dupin sprinted off after them.

Before he could see anything, he heard the inspector.

“Boss! Here! Come on. The car!”

The dark-red Kadjar stood directly behind the lighthouse, the driver’s door open.

There was no sign of Agnès Griffon.

“She probably wanted to hide here.”

Riwal’s intuition had been correct.

“There’s nothing inside the car, nor the trunk.” Kadeg was standing at the rear of the car.

“We tried to call her a few times, including just now. But no answer,” called Riwal. “Cosqueric is on his way.”

“The lighthouse is locked, she can’t be in there. We have to search the surrounding area.” Le Menn headed toward the sharp headland that stretched from the lighthouse to the west, four to five meters above the water. Like a gnarled hand with bizarrely shaped fingers. Deep rock crevices, overhanging rocks, niches, even a small hollow, overgrown with shrubbery to hip height. Ideal hiding places. The sea was rising, announcing the incoming tide.

“Hello? Madame Griffon?”

Le Menn’s voice could reach an impressive volume.

Kadeg joined in: “Madame Griffon? This is the police! There’s nothing to fear! Hello?” He moved toward the southern side.

Without further discussion, Riwal and Dupin ran off too, calling out loudly.

The sun was now well over the horizon and unfurling its considerable strength, as though it wanted to help them on their search with its strong rays.

Dupin ran along the edge of the rock plateau for a while, but then decided to climb down. About three meters below, there was a strip of sand. Perhaps the rocks extended out a little farther. They would have to look in all possible hiding places.

“Hello? Madame Griffon? Are you there?”

He had to be careful, the land fell away steeply, and it would be easy to lose his footing, particularly at the level the tide usually reached. Lichen, lichen everywhere, upon which a gossamer-thin, slippery film had formed overnight. Dupin had almost reached the sand when he heard Le Menn’s cries. She seemed quite a way away.

“Here … Ma … Gr … on i … ere!”

She was barely comprehensible. But it was enough. Le Menn had found her.

Dupin promptly clambered back onto the plateau, but not before slipping and tearing open his trousers at the knee. His trousers, and his knee.

“Here! She’s here.”

Le Menn was more audible now, but still not visible. The direction the calls were coming from was clear, at least.

Dupin launched into a run, joined by Kadeg.

“Here! Here!”

The commissaire and inspector soon reached the outer western tip of the islet, and judging by the last cries they’d heard, they had to be really close.

“Le Menn? Where are you?”

“Down here.”

To the left-hand side, the rocks fell away steeply to the sea; down below, they saw a ledge at sea level. Dupin and Kadeg climbed down after each other. Only when they reached the bottom did they see Le Menn. Her jeans were ripped too, and long strands of her ponytail fell across her face.

“There…”

The policewoman turned to the side, toward the steep rock face.

Agnès Griffon.

She was lying crossways on a craggy rock.

“No pulse. She’s not breathing,” summarized Le Menn. “She’s dead, strangled. Like Provost.”

It was immediately evident. The injuries on her neck, the distorted, disfigured facial expression. An expression of torture. And that’s exactly what this death had been: an unimaginable, lingering torture.

Her arms and legs hung down limply, intensifying the gruesome sight. Dupin had no doubt in Le Menn’s diagnosis, but still leaned briefly over Madame Griffon, put his ear to her mouth, felt her pulse. Then he reached for his cell phone. And immediately found the number he needed.

Cosqueric.

“Hello?”

“Dupin here.” They needed to act swiftly and resolutely. “Where are you, Cosqueric?”

Dupin could hear loud engine noises.

“On my way to join you…”

“Where exactly?”

“Close to the parking lot, we—”

“Stop where you are! Griffon’s dead, strangled. The perpetrator must have followed her in their car. It’s only just happened. They can’t have escaped along the D25, I would have passed them.”

Dupin heard the earsplitting squeal of an emergency brake.

“Have the entire cape cordoned off at once, Cosqueric. They must have escaped via some side route here at the point.”

“Consider it done.”

Cosqueric had already hung up.

Le Menn stepped over to Dupin, the phone in her hand. “Riwal has an idea about what route the perpetrator might have taken. He’s setting off immediately.”

Riwal too knew the area inside out, of course.

“And he’ll liaise with Cosqueric.”

“Good.”

Kadeg was on the phone now too.

“Yes, exactly. The coroner! And an ambulance! To the lighthouse, Pointe des Poulains. At once!” His curt command ended the conversation.

Dupin had walked a little farther along the cliff, and only came to a standstill once the path stopped. He needed to be alone for a moment. He stood there, motionless. His gaze wandered across the sea that, in spite of the sunshine, which was now fierce, looked mysteriously dark. For a few seconds, Dupin lost himself in his thoughts.

What was going on here in this island paradise? Whatever it was, it was getting more and more mysterious. And increasingly brutal.

Why Agnès Griffon? Provost’s ex-wife? She’d still been officially married to him. How was this connected to the previous events? With Provost’s blackmailing and murder? With Zinc’s kidnapping? What was the one story linking all of these occurrences? Or were there multiple stories?

Dupin felt the heat of anger rising within him.

He pulled out his cell.

Nolwenn answered at once.

“Riwal just told me, Monsieur le Commissaire. This is beyond belief! And on Belle-Île. It’s a place where you’d expect Acadian happiness, not murder.”

“We have to find out as quickly as possible who Agnès Griffon has spoken to on the phone within the last few hours.”

“Of course.”

“And find out who her lawyer is. With regards to the divorce. Ask whether there was anything she didn’t tell us about.”

“No problem. If I understand correctly, her death means her compulsory share of Provost’s inheritance will now go to the wind energy project, if she doesn’t have any heirs.”

“Damn it!”

Nolwenn was right. Of course.

“I’ll speak with Cosqueric and the mayor, and find out what’s happening with the inheritance right away. It would be a little suspicious, don’t you think? Once again Madame Megret and her project would profit.”

She was entirely right. It was very suspicious.

“One more thing, Nolwenn. We urgently need to look at the flight connections from the day before yesterday and yesterday. All the takeoffs and landings on the island.”

They should have done that long before now.

“Monsieur le Commissaire!” Audible indignation. “We did that yesterday, right away. Did no one tell you?”

“No. And?”

“There’s a small airport near Clohars-Carnoët. That would be the closest to Doëlan. Cosqueric, Riwal, and I gave it considerable thought and actually ruled it out. It would be too laborious and risky for the perpetrator.”

“In what way?”

“They would have needed a car from the airport to get to Doëlan; there are no bus connections. Taking a taxi would be too conspicuous.”

“Madame Megret can land her plane on any field track.”

“In the dark that’s too dangerous, and during the day it would attract too much attention.”

“Hmm. And the kidnapping? Surely it’s conceivable for that.”

“We have the list of all registered flights. None of them stand out. Madame Megret and Madame Griffon did fly during this period, but only with you.”

“Find out whether any of the neighbors still have a pilot’s license. The menhir researcher, perhaps?”

“Okay.”

“There may have been unregistered flights.” Dupin wouldn’t let it go.

“Extremely unlikely. I asked the head of the Aéro-Club to keep a close eye on everything.”

Dupin fell silent. But he wasn’t satisfied.

Nolwenn hung up and Dupin went back to the others.

“Have Riwal or Cosqueric been in touch?”

“Not yet.”

“We need to know where the mayor and other neighbors are right now, and also where they were between seven this morning and now. I’ll take Tenom Burlot and the mayor. Le Menn, you take the Fidelins, and Kadeg, you speak with Madame Corbel. And tell her I’ll be coming to talk to her again shortly.”

“And Trotter, the menhir researcher?” checked Le Menn.

“You speak to him. And ask him about this menhir center in Nantes … Oh, actually, don’t, I’ll do that later myself.”

Within seconds, the whole group had their cell phones to their ears.

“Hello?”

The mayor’s voice. Alert, assertive, businesslike.

“This is Commissaire Dupin. Where are you right now, madame?” He pressed the phone to his ear, trying to make out any background noise at the other end.

“Good morning, Commissaire. I’m at home. You’re familiar with my morning rout—”

“Do you have a landline?”

“Yes. It’s 02 97 67 12 56.”

“Can I call you on it now?”

“Of course. But if you would be so kind,” an overtly sarcastic tone, “as to tell me why?”

“Is your husband there?”

“He went to the mainland today on the first ferry, at six forty-five.”

“Can you prove you were home from seven o’clock until now?”

“I’m afraid not.” She sounded very self-assured.

“Did you take the plane out the night before last, or yesterday morning, madame?”

“Commissaire, you know exactly when we flew out to the buoys.”

“Please answer my question.”

“The night before last and yesterday morning?”

“That’s right.”

“No, to both. Why do you ask?”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.”

“When did you last fly? From Belle-Île? Besides our flight.”

“Last weekend. Sunday. Privately. For pleasure. I always fly on Sundays when I don’t have any work commitments. I’m a member of the Aéro-Club. It relaxes me, you see, I…”

“Agnès Griffon, your cousin … madame, she’s been murdered. Just now.”

“Excuse me?”

Intense horror filled her voice, whether it was feigned or real.

“Agnès? Murdered?”

This time her voice was almost inaudible, quiet and flat.

“Yes. Strangled. Exactly like Patric Provost. It happened less than an hour ago.”

Dupin had begun to walk up and down on the rock ledge.

The mayor fell silent for a while. Dupin too. If she had nothing to do with the whole thing, her cousin being murdered would, of course, be a terrible shock.

“That … that can’t be.”

Dupin thought he heard a sob.

“Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“You…”

Monette Megret broke off.

“I’d like to extend my deepest sympathies, madame.”

“And you … you really think it’s possible,” an aggressive disbelief started to emerge, “that I murdered her, Commissaire? My own cousin? Do you? Her, and Patric Provost too?”

“I’m just doing my job, madame.”

“In my opinion you’re neglecting it!” Now the aggression won the upper hand. “And criminally so, if you’re wasting your time with such nonsense.”

If the grief that had gripped her was genuine, it was now transforming into rage. Dupin couldn’t change that, nor could he make any exceptions.

“Do you know whom your cousin’s estate will go to?”

“Her sister, I presume.” The answer came promptly. “Why do you ask?”

“Does her sister live on the island too?”

“No. She lives in Cornwall. And she’s significantly older.”

“Thank you, Madame Megret.” Dupin was suddenly in a hurry. “I’m sure we’ll speak to and see each other very soon.”

“I … Au revoir, Commissaire.”

Dupin hung up.

His thoughts were racing. There was so much to do now. And as always, he wanted to do it all at once. But first he had to take care of the second phone call. The cell phone was already back to his ear.

“Yes?”

“Tenom Burlot?”

Dupin didn’t recognize the voice.

“No. But this is his phone.”

It was a woman’s voice.

“This is Commissaire Dupin. Whom am I speaking to?”

“Marie. Marie Boucher. We met yesterday.”

Burlot’s colleague, the sheep farmer he had seen with Provost’s flock at the Plage des Grands Sables.

“Is Monsieur Burlot available?”

“He’s just gone to fetch baguettes. In Le Palais.”

“Are you at his house? In Islonk?”

Kadeg and Le Menn had finished their phone calls, and were now standing back by the body.

“Yes.”

This was new information too—that, or at least as Dupin understood it, Tenom Burlot and Marie Boucher were seemingly an item. Burlot had neither mentioned it nor made it obvious. But that, of course, wasn’t a crime.

“Are you and Monsieur Burlot in a relationship, madame?”

“You could put it like that, yes.”

“When did he set off?”

“Hmm. I only just properly woke up. But I always notice when he gets up. It was just after seven, roughly, I think. It must have…” She didn’t finish the sentence. “Oh, here he comes. Tenom is just coming in the door, monsieur. Do you want to speak to him?”

“Please.”

“The commissaire,” Dupin heard her say, “he wants to talk to you.”

A short pause, then: “Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Where are you just coming from, Monsieur Burlot?”

“I was at the bakery. Where I always go. Le Palais.”

The almost penetratingly gentle voice. He didn’t seem to know about Agnès Griffon’s murder. Or he was feigning ignorance. Dupin decided not to mention it just yet, which, if the sheep farmer had nothing to do with it, would be a morbid tactic. But there was no other way.

“Can anyone confirm that for me?”

“Yvonne. Like yesterday, too. The owner of the bakery.”

“When did you set off?”

“About seven fifteen. Why?”

He and his girlfriend hadn’t had opportunity to confer, so it was a good test. This meant he would have been on the road for about an hour.

“Why did you only get back now?”

“I went to have a coffee with Margot. We do that in the morning sometimes.”

“Just now?”

“Just now.”

“Did you get baguettes for your neighbors again?”

An important point.

“I did.”

“And handed them over yourself? To the Fidelins? Madame Corbel?”

By now, these were the only ones left.

“Exactly. That’s why I was at Margot’s. Agnès wasn’t there. She actually wanted one too.”

“But you just saw Madame Corbel?”

“Yes. I went to her first. Only briefly. She’s not very talkative in the mornings.”

“When were you at hers?”

“Why are you asking me all this?”

“Answer me.”

“Around twenty to eight, I think. Roughly.”

“And then straight to Margot Fidelin?”

“Exactly.”

“No later than a quarter to eight?”

“No.”

“And then you spent about half an hour with Margot Fidelin?”

“Out on the bench, yes.”

“Did you see Monsieur Fidelin?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“When you arrived or when you left?”

“When I arrived.”

Dupin let a pause arise. A siren became audible, coming closer and closer. The ambulance. Or more police cars. If this was all true, and they could swiftly check, then Tenom Burlot had a solid alibi. And he wasn’t the only one. The Fidelins and Madame Corbel too. It was impossible that the perpetrator could have been back before eight.

“Okay, Monsieur Burlot. I have some very sad news. Agnès Griffon,” Dupin kept it brief, “she’s just been murdered.”

The reaction took a while to come.

“What?”

“Your neighbor was murdered. Strangled. About three-quarters of an hour ago.”

This time it took even longer before Burlot reacted.

“I don’t believe it. I have to sit down.”

“You do that, monsieur.”

“That’s absolutely terrible…” He broke off.

“It is, incredibly. Thank you for answering my questions.”

Dupin had the information he needed.

“I’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

Burlot sounded wretched.

“What about Manuel Trotter? Where was he just now?”

Dupin, Kadeg, and Le Menn had gathered back at the lighthouse. An island doctor and gendarme were taking care of the corpse until the coroner arrived. They already had the most important information for the investigation: the time and the cause of death. Whether the perpetrator had left any traces on the corpse, they would only find out after the examination in the lab.

Le Menn had just reached Trotter.

“He was at the menhirs before sunrise, he says. He apparently set out at half past six and didn’t see anybody.”

Of course not. It fit with what he had said yesterday about his current research project, and yet: Trotter had no alibi whatsoever. And from Jean and Jeanne, it was less than five minutes by car to the point. Three, if you really put your foot down.

“Did he—”

Dupin’s phone rang.

Riwal.

“Fresh tire marks, boss. On one of the routes north of the D25 that runs parallel to the point. They could be from the perpetrator’s vehicle.”

At last, some small progress. So far the killer had been so inconspicuous that you could almost think they were a ghost.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty much. We spotted them on a short sandy stretch of the path. They’re fresh.”

Riwal was good at things like that; a Celtic track reader.

“Can you make anything out, a profile? Tire width? Type of tire?”

Dupin had begun to pace around the lighthouse.

“No.”

“Is it the kind of track where you need an off-road vehicle? A four-wheel drive?”

“Not necessarily, but it would be easier. Either way, one thing’s for sure,” Riwal summarized, “he or she is from the island. The route leads off from the road just before the beach. Where we were just now, it looks like a sandy footpath, and only widens a bit farther down. Only a local would know it’s drivable.”

Dupin hadn’t realized, certainly.

“Get Forensics to look at it, the entire route.”

“Of course, boss.”

“Good work, Riwal.”

Dupin hung up.

“Now to our Bernhardt admirer,” the commissaire continued, once he had updated them on Riwal’s call. “Kadeg, have you spoken with Madame Corbel?”

“Generally speaking, it was an unpleasant conversation.”

Dupin could believe that. Unpleasant for both sides, no doubt.

“She was at home between seven and eight fifteen, she claims. She has a meeting in the museum at nine. It seems the island’s four mayors are coming to see her. She got up at six forty-five, then Tenom Burlot came by at about seven forty-five and…”

“… brought her a baguette,” Dupin finished his sentence for him.

“Exactly. It seems you’re already in the know.” Kadeg gave Dupin a disapproving look.

“At around seven forty-five,” Dupin turned to Le Menn, “Burlot dropped by the Fidelins, he says, and had a coffee on the terrace with Margot Fidelin. Until about eight fifteen. He brought the Fidelins baguettes too.”

Le Menn nodded. “That fits with what Madame Fidelin told us.”

“Have you spoken with Byn too?”

“He was already in the distillery. Since seven this morning. It seems he was working overnight too. Until four o’clock.”

“I see.”

Dupin had been making a note of everything as best he could while standing up. This was important.

“I need to call Agnès Griffon’s sister.” He had no choice; she had a right to be informed immediately about what had happened.

“And don’t forget her fiancé,” Le Menn reminded him. “The man in Vannes.”

Dupin had completely forgotten about him.

“I won’t.” Dupin gave her a nod.

“Nolwenn’s been trying to reach you, by the way,” Kadeg informed him.

“Tell her I’ll call in ten minutes. Or fifteen. If there’s something urgent, interrupt my phone call.”

“As always.”

He was already pulling out his phone.

Dupin walked toward the small basin. It was incomprehensible how, here, between the bleak, inhospitable cliffs, a jungle-like dense green suddenly sprouted forth, fernlike plants, taller than Dupin. It was an insane green that contrasted with the turquoise tones of the lagoon, which were now unfolding more and more, and to the blindingly white sand beneath the pastel blue of the sky. This was one of the most beautiful spots Dupin had seen in Brittany. Ever. But he had no time to admire it.

The sun was now even farther above the horizon. You could feel what was in store: another scorchingly hot summer’s day. Dupin already needed his cap.

Both of the two phone calls had been difficult.

Agnès Griffon’s sister had been at the butcher’s in St Ives. Dupin had offered to call her back later, but of course, she’d wanted to know at once, her voice filled with alarm, why a French commissaire from Belle-Île was calling her in Cornwall. Even though the sisters apparently hadn’t seen each other often, it seemed they had been very fond of each other. Dupin had felt the shock the news had unleashed in the sister. He had asked her about the will, which had been drawn up ten years ago. The sister knew she was in it as the sole benefactor. She had a copy, and was unaware of any changes, for example regarding her sister’s new fiancé.

Dupin had walked down to the beach along the path they had driven up to the lighthouse. Sarah Bernhardt’s fort was visible from here, he now noticed. Next, he had called Michel Gac, Agnès’s partner.

Gac had broken down. He was on a business trip in Paris and had just gotten out of the shower in his hotel, answering the phone in a cheerful tone, when Dupin reached him. The call had lasted longer than the one to Griffon’s sister. Gac kept asking for a reason. The catastrophic “Why?” He was unaware of any conflicts she’d had with anyone. Apart from the ones with Provost, which were apparently bad.

During the conversation with Gac, Dupin kept walking, but without any specific destination. Once he hung up, he felt the need for a double Six Reines de la Belle-Île.

His phone was already back at his ear. He urgently needed to call Nolwenn.

“Monsieur le Commissaire, there you are! There’s new info. I’ve got Agnès Griffon’s phone records. Not a single call this morning. Just the one with you. At seven sixteen A.M. I’ll send you the list, but at first glance there’s nothing suspicious. A few phone calls with her life partner over the last few days, two with the Fidelins, and otherwise just work colleagues.”

Nevou and Nolwenn had worked fast.

Dupin passed the entrance to Sarah Bernhardt’s fort.

“Madame Griffon’s lawyer is based in Vannes, and has been practicing for a long time. I just spoke with him on the phone. He couldn’t think of anything worth mentioning. The exchanges with Provost’s lawyer were apparently arduous, but, and I quote, “not hostile.” He said Provost was pathologically stingy. That’s no news to us. He also knew, by the way, which notary has Madame Griffon’s will. I’m just about to receive a copy. Unofficially.”

“I know what it says … or what it’s supposed to say,” Dupin corrected himself. “Her estate goes to her sister in Cornwall, I’ve just spoken with her. The mayor, her cousin, told me about the sister…”

Dupin heard a vehicle behind him. He looked around and recognized it at once. A dark-green Citroën SUV.

“And there she is.”

“Who?”

“Monette Megret. She has a meeting at Madame Corbel’s with the island’s other mayors. Here in the museum.”

“I take it you’re on a walk, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

Nolwenn knew Dupin too well. He had actually feared another Sarah Bernhardt story, but he’d clearly been spared.

“There seems to be a lot happening at the Pointe des Poulains this morning.”

There really was.

“The mayor doesn’t appear to have sunken into intense grief over her cousin’s murder. Oh well, I guess business meetings take priority.”

The mayor had driven swiftly past him. Pebbles whirled up and jumped wildly to and fro. Either she hadn’t recognized him, which was very unlikely, or she had decided to ignore him, which would be laughable. Dupin glanced at the time: 8:49. The meeting was due to start in eleven minutes. The mayor was incredibly punctual.

“I’ll continue, Monsieur le Commissaire. You already know the most important details: Agnès Griffon’s sister will receive the compulsory share that Griffon would have inherited from Provost. A considerable sum. So it won’t go to the Smart Island Initiative, after all. And with regard to the pilot’s licenses: no one else besides Monette Megret and Agnès Griffon has one. Not the menhir researcher either. Is there any news from your side, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

Dupin reported back as best he could.

A brief pause arose.

“Do you know the Aligaga story?”

This sounded suspiciously like Sarah Bernhardt.

“That’s what she called her alligator, Aligaga, no joke. Do you know how it died? The island doctor at the time established the cause: an overdose of champagne! Right then, ken emberr, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“Ken emberr,” he said with a sigh.

It was a peculiar, markedly austere building. The fort—rectangular, long, flat-roofed—looked like one large brick placed into the landscape. The beige-painted plaster had mostly crumbled away, exposing the pale, coarse stones the military facility had originally been constructed from. It wasn’t even that tall; six meters, perhaps. There were arrow slits at the top and, every few meters, an oriel window. These windows, presumably worked into the imposing walls later for the international star, didn’t fit at all with the style and character of the building, which was unwelcoming overall. For a fortress, its dimensions were modest. It was hard to imagine this as the stronghold that had defended the entire island.

The driveway into the fort led directly to the entrance door. Madame Megret had driven right to the end, perhaps to leave room for other cars. Which hadn’t arrived yet. There was, however, a car parked to the right of the fort, on a withered meadow. A Citroën DS. A rare model. Dupin’s favorite car. A DS convertible, to be more precise, which was even rarer. Red. And in immaculate condition. He was sure, even though he hadn’t seen it in Islonk, that it was Madame Corbel’s. Who else could afford such extravagance?

Perhaps the two women had something to discuss before the meeting? Dupin decided to pay them a surprise visit.

On the southern side, where the entrance was located, the fort extended almost as far as a wildly romantic private bay. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The bizarrely shaped rocks jutted up from the sea, reminiscent of Monet’s landscape, but en miniature. The entrance made a forbidding, military impression; the large, heavy gate was painted mouse gray and stood ajar.

“Madame Corbel? Madame Megret? Hello?”

Dupin called out, his voice loud and clear.

No reaction.

He stepped inside, greeted by muted light. It was significantly cooler inside the building, so much so he almost shivered. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The fort was peculiar on the inside too: dark wooden walls had been added to the bare vaults; there was a hallway, kitchen, lounge, bedroom. All the rooms were fully furnished, presumably just as they had been during Bernhardt’s lifetime. Wooden stairs led upward, probably to the roof, as the house didn’t have a second story.

“Madame Corbel? Madame Megret? This is Commissaire Dupin.”

Deathly silence.

He walked on and found himself in a huge lounge area. There was a long table, white tablecloth, fully set with white dinnerware, crystal glasses, carafes, a magnificent multi-armed candlestick, and eight dark wooden chairs. Against the walls to the left and right stood antique, artfully ornamented wooden cabinets. The door was set into a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window that offered a tremendous view of the lagoon, the little island, and the lighthouse. Everything felt overexposed; Dupin’s eyes had already adjusted to the dimmer room.

It seemed that not a single detail was missing. As though Sarah Bernhardt were still living here, and the house still inhabited. And as though she had prepared everything for an exuberant evening with her illustrious friends—painters, bohemians, actors, kings. Dupin could even picture the fox terriers running around the table, the boa slinking around the chairs, the lions padding down the hallway …

It was fascinating and eerie all at once.

He called out again.

Now he could hear something. At the far end of the corridor. The arduous creaking of the door, then: “Hello?” A woman’s voice. “We’re down here. Here!” Madame Corbel stepped out of the room into the hallway and came toward him. Today she was wearing a bright-red dress, ruffles on the sleeves: perfectly suited to the ambiance here. Elegant black ballerina shoes. “We have a lot to do, Monsieur Dupin. The mayor and I.”

“You’re grieving for your neighbor, I presume. For Madame Griffon.”

“We are. Without a doubt, Monsieur le Commissaire.” She studied Dupin with a condescending look on her face. “But at another time.”

Dupin wasn’t dissuaded: “I thought there was a meeting with all the mayors from the island.”

She jutted out her chin: “There is. We pushed it back slightly at the last minute, to nine fifteen. We have something else to discuss.”

“The museum belongs to the community of Sauzon, I presume, not to Bangor.”

Monette Megret clearly didn’t plan to make an appearance.

“This isn’t related to community business.”

“So what is it about?”

She looked at him with the same arrogant expression as a moment ago.

“Don’t you have a murder to solve? Two murders. A terrible affair!” Extreme indignation.

“That’s what I’m doing, madame. So, what is it you two are discussing?”

“The contributions from the Acadians for a significant expansion of the museum.” The mayor appeared as though out of nowhere. She looked worn out. All the dynamism and energy she had exuded yesterday had disappeared from her face and posture. Was she just acting? If so, it was very convincing.

“The Acadians?”

“I’m their president, if you remember, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Megret was clearly trying to sound firm, to make a composed impression.

“Do we really want to discuss that with the commissaire?” Madame Corbel turned to the mayor.

“We have nothing to hide.”

Madame Corbel threw up her hands dramatically.

“Laughable.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked toward the door at the end of the hallway. Madame Megret followed. And willingly continued: “As I said, the Acadians support the island’s important institutions”—she spoke almost mechanically—“in particular its cultural legacy, not just with contributions from the association’s funds, but also with targeted donations from individuals. Sarah Bernhardt is, of course, very close to our hearts. We’re contemplating a contribution to the new building. And have been for some time,” she added.

“How much of a contribution?”

Dupin was right behind her.

“Around fifty thousand euros.”

He ran his hand through his hair. Now he understood.

“Of course. Now the extension is possible. All Provost’s land and property will be sold and all the money goes to the Smart Island Initiative.” He had gotten his wires crossed. “I presume the community will get preemptive rights to Provost’s meadow here, and not obstruct the new museum building, but instead support it. So as of yesterday, there’s nothing more standing in its way.”

The same applied to the many other undertakings of many other Bellilois whose ideas and plans had been blocked by Provost. Had they not looked into this aspect enough in their investigations? Who stood to profit from Provost’s death, and in what way? But then what was the point of the blackmailing and kidnapping? And above all: Why had Agnès Griffon been killed? Murdering Provost would have been enough.

“Exactly,” confirmed Madame Corbel with theatrical pathos, “and I won’t even attempt to conceal how happy I am about it. Nor the fact that I won’t wait a single second longer to make the project a reality!”

She clapped her hands with excitement.

Madame Megret added earnestly: “That’s exactly how it is, Monsieur le Commissaire. The authority of Sauzon is sure to be the new owner of the land here above the fort, where the expansion of the museum will take place. All entirely aboveboard. To serve the public interest. The mayor already confirmed yesterday afternoon that they want to buy the land from us, the Smart Island Initiative.”

They had now stepped into a long, narrow room with a tiny window. It clearly served as an office. Here too, everything was furnished with historical pieces: a slender table, old bookshelves, and a bureau beneath the window with a computer on it.

“And the two of you certainly aren’t wasting any time. Is the extension the subject of the meeting with the other mayors?”

A large black-and-white photograph hung above the table: Sarah Bernhardt stared dramatically into the camera. She was posing flirtatiously, and wore a snow-white long-sleeved dress with an equally snow-white chic hat. Next to her was a dresser covered with flowers, makeup, and numerous porcelain dolls. At the outer edge of the picture were two women who looked astonishingly similar to Bernhardt, dressed in exactly the same way.

Madame Corbel followed Dupin’s gaze. “The whole world loved her and wanted her. And she gave herself to the world! But now and then she needed her peace, so she hired two young women who bore a certain resemblance to her, dressed them like her, and had them promenade across the island.”

She paused briefly, then returned to Dupin’s question.

“This meeting has been fixed for a long time. I arranged it.” She sounded increasingly animated. “It’s to discuss a number of points regarding how the island can be highlighted even more effectively as Sarah Bernhardt’s island. For example, I can imagine an international theater week taking place here. And acting seminars led by real stars. Multimedia island tours, tracing Sarah Bernhardt’s footsteps. But,” she generously acknowledged, “of course, recent events have now brought the swift progression of the extension higher up the agenda—”

Dupin’s phone interrupted her.

Riwal.

He went out into the corridor and ducked inside the nearest room.

“Yes?”

“Where are you, boss? We’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m just paying Madame Corbel a visit. Madame Megret is here too, there’s a meeting for the island’s mayors about the extension of the museum, on Provost’s land, which, as things look, will be going to the community of Sauzon. That means the green light for the project.”

“Wonderful.”

This much was clear: Riwal was in favor of the development.

“Well, interesting side effects, boss. The community of Bangor will buy the land Jean and Jeanne are on and do something to protect the menhirs, as Trotter’s demanding. The whisky distillery will be expanded, and Margot Fidelin gets her ceramics studio. If Zinc is released and everything goes well, he’ll be able to remodel his house. Tenom Burlot might be able to buy the sheep-breeding business, and perhaps some land too, at least the section behind Plage des Grands Sables. And if Madame Griffon hadn’t been murdered, she would soon have become a free, very wealthy woman…”

Dupin had stopped in his tracks. Seen cumulatively like that, they really were considerable side effects.

“Did you reach Agnès Griffon’s sister and partner, boss?”

“I did.” Dupin succinctly updated him.

He had stumbled into the Bernhardts’ sleeping quarters, in which there was a monstrosity of a bed. Solid, almost black wood, adorned with seemingly endless carvings, a padded base, and a tall, ornate headboard. The bed looked like a fort in itself. In front of it, as though in a horror film, stood a life-sized Sarah Bernhardt. A wax replica that Madame Tussaud herself would have been proud of, and—this was particularly eerie—wearing exactly the same dress as in the photograph.

“Madame Griffon’s body is en route to the coroner’s lab by police boat.” Riwal continued his report. “And the forensics team are examining the car, the scene of the crime and the escape route, the tire tracks. I gather you’ve already spoken with Nolwenn about the phone records.”

“Anything else, Riwal?”

“Two colleagues went out to Madame Griffon’s house. Mainly to see whether they could find any blackmail or threat letters. Perhaps someone thought that, given she was rich now, it could be worth a try with her too.”

That would definitely make sense.

“And?”

“They haven’t found anything yet.”

“Okay.”

Dupin rubbed his temples. It was important they kept Zinc’s kidnapping in their sights, especially now, following the murder of Madame Griffon.

“Should we wait for you, boss? The crime scene is barricaded off. Otherwise I’ll station two gendarmes here and pop back home briefly. We headed out in a hurry, and I…” His voice was tinged with embarrassment. “I’m not properly attired.”

“Fine. Let’s meet at Goulou in three-quarters of an hour.”

“It doesn’t open till twelve, boss.”

“Damn it.” He had completely forgotten that. “Then let’s meet where we ate yesterday evening.”

One way or another, he urgently needed coffee.

“Okay. See you then, boss.”

“See you then.”

Dupin returned to the room at the end of the corridor. The women were now sitting down and talking in hushed tones.

“If you could allow us to speak privately for a few more minutes, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Madame Corbel looked up, her expression stern. “It’s already unfortunate enough that—”

“Your neighbor was just murdered within eyeshot of here.” Dupin positioned himself in front of the tiny window. It was macabre: from here, there was a direct view of the lighthouse and the part of the islet where it had happened.

“It’s terrible.” The mayor’s voice sounded brittle. She stared blankly into nothingness.

“But we can’t pause our work now,” lectured Madame Corbel. “This is about Sarah Bernhardt, after all. She’s already had to wait too long for the expansion.”

Her voice vibrated with deep indignation.

“Right then, so—”

“Hello? Madame Corbel? We’re here.”

A male voice echoed in from the hallway.

“Oh wonderful! Now look,” Madame Corbel snapped at Dupin, “everyone’s here and we’ve barely discussed a thing!”

She let out a sigh of contempt and stood up.

“Monette, you’ll just have to stay on afterward.”

The mayor nodded absentmindedly.

“If you would now excuse us, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Madame Corbel left the commissaire standing there. “You can see for yourself how bitterly urgent the extension is. We can’t even meet in here. We have to do it outside. Fortunately, we have the Sarahtorium at our disposal.” She turned back abruptly. “You don’t even know what that is, monsieur! Her private terrace, an intimate spot in the shade of the house. She used to invite the most distinguished of individuals over in the early afternoons for conversation and coffee. Here, and only here, did she fully open up.”

Madame Corbel swept out of the room. The mayor followed.

“You’re welcome to take a look at the museum as long as you don’t disturb our meeting,” echoed the voice from the hallway.

Dupin waited for a moment. The prospect of running into the group of mayors—who would inquire about his progress with the investigation and expand at length on the disadvantageous impact of murders on high-season tourism—was more than enough to put him off.

Dupin was glad to have gained a free half hour before the team meeting. He would go for a short walk. Try to think. Here in this strange fort, he had been struck by the feeling he was overlooking something. It was a familiar sensation that triggered a marked unease and a kind of dizziness, particularly because it was so vague. He didn’t even know what had prompted it—the conversations with the two women, the telephone call with Riwal, something in the house, or perhaps a completely different thought? Sometimes the trigger eventually revealed itself to be a clue, a lead. But for that, he first needed to know what it was.

Perhaps he wasn’t overlooking anything. After all, the jitteriness yesterday evening on the terrace at Goulou hadn’t led anywhere. Though he could certainly do with a flash of inspiration right now. If observation and common sense weren’t getting him anywhere, perhaps his subconscious might jump in? There had now been two murders, one blackmailing, and a kidnapping. The case had expanded dramatically. Though the previous crimes had been carried out with the intent of extorting money; with Agnès Griffon’s murder, that didn’t seem to be the case.

Dupin left the fort and walked along a difficult but enchantingly beautiful path toward the sea, then reached the hiking path that led around the entire island. Countless numbers of the bizarrely shaped rocks protruded out of the water alongside, covered with lichen. Some, with their imposing size, reminded him of the menhirs—and of his awful dream.

The blue of the sky had intensified, as had the temperatures. There wasn’t even the slightest breeze. And his hat was in the car.

“Damn!”

He had stopped in his tracks. There wasn’t anybody to be seen far and wide.

What was going on here?

Far away, on the horizon, he thought he could suddenly see land. Mountains. He oriented himself; he was looking toward the west, that much was sure. And there wasn’t any land there. Not until Newfoundland. But the closer he looked, the clearer it was. There weren’t any clouds, nor fog. He shook himself. The mountains still didn’t disappear. On the contrary, they became more and more vivid. It had to be one of those optical illusions created by the sea in combination with the atmospheric, meteorological conditions. Claire had once explained it to him; even optical laws didn’t puzzle her. Or was it just sunstroke?

The penetrating ring of his cell phone made him jump.

Riwal again.

“Yes?”

“News, boss.”

“What?”

“Well, I looked into the Acadians thing again”—Dupin detected a note of remorse in Riwal’s voice—“the nepotism issue. So…”

“Riwal, out with it.”

“Well, Acadians are involved with most of the commissions for the Smart Island Initiative. Not the construction of the windmills themselves, but practically everything else. All the building projects on the island are carried out by the biggest construction companies here. But all of that is rigorously controlled by the administration in Rennes, in part because enormous sums come from the region. In something like this, there are very strict rules.”

“And? Was Provost involved? Or Zinc?”

“There’s no evidence of anything, no.”

“Madame Griffon?”

“No.”

“The mayor?”

“Not her either.”

“Then keep looking, Riwal.”

Perhaps he would still find something. It was an interesting line of inquiry, in any case.

“We’re on it, boss. Nevou is working away.”

“Good, Riwal. I’ll see you shortly.”

Dupin hung up. He needed to start making his way back to the car. He tentatively glanced at the sea, toward the west. But there was nothing more to be seen, no land, no mountain, just the horizon with its delicate ultramarine line.

Once again, the nerve-jangling tone of his cell.

The island commander.

“Yes?”

“Zinc! He’s on Île d’Houat. He was able to escape and made it to a house. Slightly injured, but he’s okay.”

“The captain?”

Dupin stood rooted to the spot. Before Cosqueric had a chance to continue, Dupin fired further questions at him: “Has he said anything? Did he see his kidnapper?”

“The call only just came in. From a Parisian man who has a house on the island with his wife. Zinc suddenly appeared in his garden. The man rang the police.”

“How do we get to Houat?”

Dupin had already broken into a run.

“Goulch. His boat is in Le Palais. I’ll call him. It’s fifteen minutes to Houat.”

Dupin knew what that meant. Fifteen minutes at full speed. But it didn’t matter.

“We’ve already informed the island doctor on Houat,” Cosqueric swiftly added.

“Let’s meet in the harbor. Do you have the Parisian man’s phone number?”

“I’ll send it to you, Commissaire.”

“And call Zinc’s brother. He needs to know right away.”

“I will.”

Dupin had already ended the call.

A few minutes later, he reached his car. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed it had lost its exhaust pipe; that must have been the clattering sound earlier.

The text message from Cosqueric had already arrived, he’d heard it on the way to the car. Dupin dialed the number with his left hand, turning the key in the ignition with his right. He pressed the phone firmly to his ear, knowing that the airstream would be loud as he drove.

“Hello, yes?”

A calm male voice.

“This is Commissaire Georges Dupin, I’m leading the investigations in the kidnapping case of Albert Zinc, who is currently at your house, is that correct?” A breathless sentence.

“He is, Monsieur le Commissaire. He’s safe.”

“Is he feeling well enough to talk?”

“He seems incredibly weak and tired, he has a bad bruise on the back of his neck and an open wound, but it’s no longer bleeding. He’s lying on the sofa. The doctor should be here any moment.”

Dupin was struggling to keep the car under control as it lurched from side to side in the sand.

“But he’s conscious?”

“Yes. Dehydrated, it seems to me. My wife and I gave him something to drink.”

“Has he said anything about his kidnapper?”

“No. So far he’s just stammered a few words. That he was locked up in a shed. Seemingly to the east of here, he just pointed in the general direction.”

“Any other injuries?”

“Welts on his wrists, from being bound up, I presume. Maybe on his feet too.”

Dupin had now reached the D25, and pushed the gas pedal down to the floor.

“We’ll be with you in about twenty minutes, monsieur.”

“Your colleague knows where our house is, above a small bay, it’s easily accessible by boat.”

Now racing along at the top speed of 120 kilometers per hour, Dupin struggled to make out his words. Especially because, without the tailpipe, the car was now considerably louder.

“See you soon, monsieur.”

“See you soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Dupin tossed his phone on the passenger seat.

When he braked sharply at the crossing, where the left turn led to Le Palais, as always the phone flew to the floor, joining his cap, the map, and the water bottle.

Its engines roaring, the Bir cast off from Le Palais. From exactly the same spot on the quay where they had moored yesterday. It felt like an eternity ago. It was always like that during a case: time lost all measure and structure. It stretched out, coiled up, condensed, came to a halt, then jumped again. It did whatever it liked. Sometimes it felt as though something had only just happened; then as though it were weeks ago, or like it had just been an illusion. Time anomalies. And it seemed to Dupin that on Belle-Île, the feeling was even more distinct than usual. Riwal had warned him.

Dupin knew what was about to follow. At a “measured speed,” the speedboat would drive out to the last breakwater of the harbor, then Goulch would fire the engines up to the maximum. Like yesterday. The only comfort was that the whole ordeal would only last a quarter of an hour.

Soon they, he and Riwal, were racing across the silvery-blue sea. Le Menn and Kadeg had remained behind on Belle-Île, where Kadeg was now in charge.

They shot past the island, leaving it behind them. It soon became smaller and smaller. Their destination, the Île d’Houat, did the exact opposite: it came into view and grew in size. But even after a quarter of an hour, the island wasn’t that large. More of a dainty fleck of land in the ocean. To the right of it was an even smaller one. Hoëdic.

Just like yesterday, Dupin was standing at the stern of the boat. He gripped the railing and stared in the direction of travel. At least the horizon was visible, in contrast to their first trip, where everything had been veiled by fog. He had promised himself he’d be brave, but the sensation overpowered him. Once again, his head began to reel. His knees went weak. Riwal came over to join him, a ritual now, in order to distract and support the commissaire.

“How’s it going, boss?”

Sweat dripped down Dupin’s brow, which wasn’t shielded from the heat today. He was holding the Tahiti cap tightly in his hand.

“So what do you think of Belle-Île, boss? Just in general?”

Dupin remained silent. But an answer wasn’t necessary; Riwal took care of that himself.

“The island has everything you could ever need. If you suddenly got cut off from the world here, you could live a good life: the best fish, the best seafood, vegetables, legendary meat, lamb in abundance, wonderful cheese, whisky, honey from black bees, wonderful restaurants.”

The list was a clear picture of how Riwal pictured paradise. And Dupin was mostly in agreement. Apart from the missing coffee plantations and roasteries. And vineyards.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” he muttered, gripping the railing even tighter.

“By the way, I’ve just spoken with Cosqueric. The police boat from Quiberon will arrive shortly after ours. They’ll take a look at the area to the east of the Parisian couple’s house, where the shed Zinc was held in is presumably located. Cosqueric says there’re only a few there. He and his brigade are officially responsible for Houat too, as it happens.”

“Good.”

It was the only response Dupin could muster.

“On Houat, there’s just a tiny village with a small dock, where the ferry moors. But it also has what may be the most beautiful beach in all of Brittany.”

Dupin had heard of it.

“An immense lagoon, crescent-shaped, with almost two kilometers of the finest glistening white sand that stretches out into the shallow sea. All the shades of blue and turquoise your heart could desire, boss, and more. It deepens only very gradually. Flawless, like the Caribbean.”

It looked as though they were going to sail between Houat and Hoëdic.

“You know what Houat and Hoëdic means, right?” The inspector didn’t wait for a response. “Duck and duckling. Because of their shape. But,” he tilted his head to the side, “they actually look more like terns. By the way, the dolphins love the sea here. And nowadays so do exotic fish. Three weeks ago, a tête de lapin was caught here, a tropical fish. Thirty centimeters long. The sea is twenty-three degrees. By Breton standards, that’s really tropical.” Riwal frowned. “The fish is highly poisonous. Tetrodotoxin, a strong neurotoxin. Kills you instantly.”

Dupin wasn’t an angler, though he’d been planning to try it for some time, and so the danger of accidentally catching a tropical, poisonous specimen wasn’t all that great.

“It’s terrible.” Riwal shrugged. “These climate changes.”

They were now exactly between the two islands. The Bir was already steering sharply to the left-hand side. A blindingly bright crescent of sand came into view.

“Voilà, La Plage de Tréac’h. And that’s the small harbor.”

They had already shot past it.

Then the boat suddenly slowed, the bow dipping into the water, and Dupin almost lost his balance. He steadied himself against the railing. But it was okay, the braking meant the torture would soon come to an end. He tried to take deep breaths in and out.

“Do you know what, boss?” The tone of Riwal’s voice had shifted, and now sounded almost melancholic. “Do you know why it moves us so deeply when we spend time on an island?”

For numerous reasons, Dupin was incapable of answering.

“Because it awakens the deep awareness that we all live on islands. That humanity only ever lives on islands. We’re island creatures. Over two-thirds of the surface of our planet is water, and even the largest continent is, in truth, just an island.”

Dupin didn’t have the strength to comment.

“And you know where all that water comes from? Directly from space, boss! From comets and asteroids, the fragments of matter our Earth formed from. The water was there from the beginning, even at the moment of its birth our planet was a water planet, even though it wasn’t yet fluid…”

“Riwal…”

“There!”

Dupin jumped.

Riwal pointed toward a sandy bay that constituted this part of the island. Right above the beach, artfully constructed into the rocks, was a solitary house. With an expansive terrace amid a lush exotic garden. Palms and other trees that were otherwise rare on the island towered up toward the sky.

They swiftly approached the bay, then there was a hefty jolt and the boat came to an abrupt halt.

Now, too, Dupin knew what would follow.

The dinghy.

The outboard motorboat swiftly brought them to land, driving right up onto the sand. Here too, there wasn’t even the hint of a wave.

Steps chiseled into the rock led in narrow serpentine curves up the steep slope. For Dupin’s now jellylike knees, it was quite a challenge. There was no time to admire the unbelievable landscape, the heavenly green oasis, the Garden of Eden.

“Hello? In here!”

Someone was calling to them.

A narrow path led through the rampant vegetation.

“Here!” the voice repeated.

After three more steps, they found themselves on the terrace. It had looked large even from below, but in reality, it was much larger still, six or seven square meters for sure, by Dupin’s estimate. Weather-beaten planks. A plexiglass balustrade that came up to stomach height offered a breathtaking view of the sea.

“The captain’s still on the sofa, come with me.”

Dupin recognized the voice, the man from Paris. He was standing at the terrace door. Late sixties, perhaps, with white, disheveled hair; subtly tanned.

“He’s already doing a little better. He’s drunk a bit more water.”

The man stepped inside the house. Dupin, Riwal, and two of the police officers from Goulch’s team followed. The space that opened up before them was gigantic. The furniture and floor were a pale wood, maritime style. Atlantic colors, Atlantic shades.

The captain was lying on a large sofa. He looked just as one would imagine a captain to look, and not merely because of his navy-blue uniform, which was currently tattered. He was tall, handsome, lean, with dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, and angular facial features that, even in his exhausted state, exuded authority and strength. His uniform was heavily stained in places. The left side of the captain’s face was also dirty. Overall, he made quite a pitiful sight.

Next to the sofa stood a blond woman and a gaunt man wearing circular glasses.

“My wife and Docteur Malou.”

Dupin gave them a friendly nod and headed straight for the sofa.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Zinc.”

The captain opened his eyes.

“I’m Commissaire Dupin, how are you feeling?”

Instead of answering, Albert Zinc began to pull himself up, which seemed to require considerable effort.

“You should stay lying down, monsieur,” intervened the doctor.

“No, no.”

He managed it. Soon he was sitting upright, at least mostly, his back and head leaned back, a grimace on his face; he must be in a lot of pain. The edge of a dark bruise could be seen on the nape of his neck, along with some cuts and dried blood.

“I’m about to tend to the wound.” The doctor had noticed Dupin’s gaze. “Captain Zinc was lucky, the blow to the back of his head could have turned out very differently.”

“It’s not so bad,” protested Zinc, albeit in a weak voice.

“I can only advise you to take it easy, Captain. These may not be life-threatening injuries, but still.” The doctor frowned. “You’ve been beaten up pretty badly. You’re also very drained and dehydrated. And under shock.”

“I just have a few questions, Monsieur Zinc.” Dupin had paused right in front of the captain. “I’m afraid it’s essential.”

“Yes.” The captain pulled himself together. “Of course.”

“Were you able to get a look at your kidnapper?”

Zinc closed his eyes, concentrated for a moment.

“It was a man. Big.” His voice was halting, but clear. “Over one eighty.”

A long pause. Dupin pulled out his notebook.

“Jeans, a dark sweatshirt, a black mask, like a ski mask.” His expression was grim, as though rage were rising within him, which Dupin could understand only too well. The anger clearly gave him new strength, for his sentences became more fluent: “So unfortunately I couldn’t see his face. He was wearing dark sneakers.”

He sat up a little straighter.

“I didn’t see him until we got here, to Houat. Once I regained consciousness. And just once, very briefly. When he locked me in the shed. I had a sack over my head. Made of something coarse, like burlap. It slipped once, just for a moment.”

Dupin was making notes.

“You’re certain about all this?”

A nod.

“Definitely a man? Not a large woman, perhaps?”

“No. It was a man. I could tell by the voice as well.”

“How close were you when you saw him?”

“Three or four meters.”

“And just one man?”

“Yes.”

“How did the kidnapping happen?”

Zinc summoned all his strength once again: “I was on my way to a friend’s. Near Le Skeul. Suddenly a car appeared in the middle of the lane. A Clio. With open doors. It was…”

“What color was the Clio?” asked Riwal.

“Dark blue. I couldn’t see anyone. I stopped to take a look in the car. That’s when he hit me.” He gestured with his right hand toward the nape of his neck. “I don’t know what with. I passed out. When I came to, I was tied up on a boat. He must’ve been hiding behind the car. There aren’t any trees or bushes in that area.”

“Did he speak to you? On the boat? Or later?” Riwal inquired.

“Just a few words.”

“And the voice didn’t sound familiar?”

“No.”

This didn’t necessarily mean anything; the person could have disguised their voice.

“What did he say?”

“That I’d been kidnapped and should do what he said, otherwise he’d kill me. I asked what he wanted.”

“And?”

“Money, he said.” Telling the story was clearly taxing Zinc. “But that I wasn’t to concern myself with it, he was sorting it out with my brother. He—”

A bolt of shock coursed through Zinc, and he suddenly sat bolt upright: “My brother, is he okay?”

“He’s fine, Monsieur Zinc,” Dupin reassured him, “he was going to pay, a million euros. He’s already been informed that you escaped.”

“A million?” echoed Zinc, mechanically.

“Do you know where the shed is located?” Riwal asked.

Zinc pointed vaguely with his left hand toward the east.

“In that direction somewhere. I’ve no idea. I just wanted to get away. You could see the ocean.”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Twenty minutes? Maybe longer. I was pretty dazed.”

“Did he take you from the boat directly to the shed?”

“Yes.”

“And then? Did he stay by the shed?”

“After that I didn’t see him again. I think he left immediately.”

Dupin had begun to pace up and down in front of the sofa.

“What were you tied up with?” Riwal was fully focused. “And how were you able to free yourself?”

“With some thick parcel twine.”

Zinc stretched his hands out in front of him. There were deep welts on his wrists, abrasions, some already inflamed. “But not very well tied.” He sounded defiant. And once again Dupin could understand him only too well.

“I started to tug at them, and eventually noticed they were loosening a little. It took a long time, though.”

“Was the shed not locked?”

“I threw myself against the door from the inside, with the last of my strength … It was an old wooden shed.”

There was pride in his words.

“Over one eighty, you say. And definitely a man.” Dupin had stopped right in front of Zinc again. The captain was squinting as though he were staring into a bright light; his voice sounded strained.

“Exactly.”

“Just one last thing, Monsieur Zinc.” Dupin ran his hand through his hair. “Have you seen or heard Patric Provost’s dog in the last few days?”

A mystified look spread across Zinc’s face.

“His dog?”

“Exactly. Louis.”

“I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.” He paused, then: “No, it was quite a while ago.”

“Okay. It’s not important.”

Dupin turned away and took out his phone. It was time to act.

He stepped out onto the terrace and walked over to the balustrade.

“Kadeg?”

“Monsieur le Com—”

“Listen up, Kadeg. You’re going to immediately ask two suspects to go to the gendarmerie. And if they don’t want to come of their own free will, threaten them with provisional detention. There are concrete suspicions and a flight risk. Cosqueric and Le Menn should be there too.”

“Of course, Monsieur le Commissaire. And who am I provisionally detaining?”

Kadeg was in his element.

“Manuel Trotter. And Tenom Burlot.”

Even though Zinc hadn’t been able to say much about the kidnapper, these two men were the only ones on Islonk that fit the description. It certainly didn’t fit Byn Fidelin’s build. And there barely seemed to be any men over one eighty on Belle-Île.

“The menhir researcher and the sheep farmer?”

A curious counter-question.

“Ask them to come, Kadeg. And only after that take the tougher approach!”

A vague mutter by way of response.

“Wait for me with them in the gendarmerie. I’ll set off right away.” Once again Dupin was hit by an attack of dizziness. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Sure thing.”

“See you soon, Kadeg.”

Dupin went back to the house and paused at the terrace door.

“Inspector Riwal.” He called to him.

Riwal promptly appeared on the terrace.

“Just a quick word.”

They walked over to the balustrade.

“You stay here for now and organize the search for the shed, then the forensics team’s search. I’ll head straight back to Belle-Île.”

He briefly explained what he had just discussed with Kadeg.

“Okay, boss.”

“I’ll just say good-bye to them briefly, Riwal.”

A mere three minutes later, for he was in a hurry, the commissaire climbed into the outboard motorboat. Another three minutes later, the Bir’s engines were revving up.

The torment began once again.

And this time without Riwal. He would call Nolwenn.

Dupin let out a deep sigh, gripped the railing, and gritted his teeth.

The gendarmerie—Brigade Territoriale Autonome de Gendarmerie du Palais—was located in the center of Le Palais, in one of the pretty houses right on the Quai Bonelle. From the windows on the first and second floor, you could watch the lively activity in the harbor. Cosqueric’s office on the second floor was a welcoming space, with rough, creaking wooden floorboards, a simple wooden table with four chairs, and right by the window, a simple desk. Maps of Belle-Île and nautical charts hung from the white walls, alongside shelves with the obligatory piles of folders.

Dupin had headed straight for the table where both men were sitting: Trotter and Burlot. Opposite them were Commander Cosqueric and Inspector Kadeg; Le Menn had stayed in Islonk, just in case. Two gendarmes were stationed in front of the door, Cosqueric was cautious.

“Messieurs!” Dupin nodded by way of greeting and launched straight in, staring fixedly at Burlot and Trotter: “Captain Zinc managed to escape.”

He allowed a pause to arise.

“Really? That’s great,” reacted Burlot. Dupin thought he saw intense relief in his expression.

“Yes, that’s good to hear. Even though I only know him by sight.” The menhir researcher brushed his hair behind his ears.

Moving slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, Dupin circled the table without averting his gaze from either of them. “He was held captive on Île d’Houat. But the key element is that he briefly caught sight of his kidnapper.”

The men stared at him intently. Their expressions were hard to read; he couldn’t detect fear or unease in either of them. But that didn’t mean anything. Whoever the perpetrator was, they were clearly very cunning.

“To be precise, it was one of the two of you.” Dupin went in full throttle.

Burlot was first to react: “You know I was out with the sheep”—the usual gentle manner which Dupin was now familiar with—“and that I have a witness.”

“Your girlfriend.”

Which put her status as a witness somewhat into question.

“With one million euros, Monsieur Burlot,” Cosqueric stared firmly at the sheep farmer, “you could immediately make your greatest desire a reality: your own sheep breed. You could even buy Provost’s. Nothing more would stand in your way.”

Put like that, it sounded like a perfect scenario.

“But it wasn’t me. I didn’t kidnap Zinc.” All at once, he seemed distraught. “Nor did I blackmail or kill Provost. Nor Agnès. And it can’t have been me. You know I was at the bakery in Le Palais yesterday and today, when it happened.”

The annoying thing was: Burlot was right. It couldn’t have been him.

“Perhaps you had an accomplice.”

“No,” his agitation increased, “I don’t. And why would I kill Agnès Griffon? She was my friend. She…”

He paused in a strange way, seemingly overcome with emotion.

“Perhaps she was onto you,” Kadeg joined in. “Or happened to see or hear something, in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Considered in that way, no other motive would have been necessary.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“And you.” Dupin turned abruptly toward Trotter and began to circumnavigate the table once again. “It could just as easily have been you. You don’t have an alibi, not for either of the murders. Not even a girlfriend who could confirm your presence.”

But, regrettably, nor did he have any discernible motive. And if it was true that he had a significant inheritance, he wasn’t lacking in money either.

“I was with the menhirs, as I told you. And at home in Islonk.”

“The fact remains: Captain Zinc has given us a description of a man. Over one eighty,” repeated Dupin, staring at each of them in turn. “That rules out Byn Fidelin. And since Agnès Griffon’s murder,” Dupin looked up at the ceiling, then continued calmly, “I think it’s clear we’re not dealing with an outsider. Someone unknown.”

He had never really considered that a possibility, in any case.

“So what do we do?” Dupin was speaking just as much to the two men as himself.

The men’s tense gazes were fixed on the commissaire.

“Perhaps I should err on the side of caution and take you both into temporary custody.”

“But why?” Burlot’s eyes widened.

Dupin had completed his walk around the table. He launched into another.

“Well, perhaps it has to do with the menhirs, Monsieur Trotter.” Kadeg spoke up, making, Dupin had to admit, an unexpected point. “With some spectacular discovery. With Carnac. With the connections you suspect with the two menhirs here.”

This scenario sounded very cryptic, even for Riwal.

“Why would I blackmail and murder people I don’t even know over that?”

There could, of course, be an as yet undiscovered connection with Trotter.

“You claim not to have any links with Nantes, Monsieur Trotter.” Dupin had had this point on his list. “But it turns out that you belong to an association that is planning a research center for megalithic stone monuments, in Nantes. This means you have spent time there. We’re assuming you’re even one of the financial donors to the center.”

Manuel Trotter smiled; it didn’t look forced. And Dupin spotted a so-far-unseen expression on his face: something brutal.

“That’s all still a vague plan. I only went to Nantes on one occasion.”

“So you lied. And—”

Dupin’s phone interrupted the interrogation.

Riwal.

Dupin picked up at once.

“Yes?”

He walked into the corridor outside Cosqueric’s office.

“We’ve found the shed, boss. Around a kilometer away from the Parisian couple’s house. It’s above a rocky, inaccessible bay. A hut that hasn’t been used in a long time, two by three meters, it was secured by a padlock that’s still intact. But the door hinges were forced out of the old wood. Everything fits. I took a photo and showed it to the captain. It’s definitely the shed he was imprisoned in.”

“Very good. Tell Forensics to go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“They’re on their way.”

“How’s Zinc doing?”

“A little better.”

“Has the doctor examined him more closely?”

“Yes. But there’s nothing new.”

“Where are the ties Zinc was held with?”

“In the shed. What’s happening with Trotter and Burlot?”

“We’re not making any progress.”

Dupin updated him. And noticed that the boost of energy he’d only just felt had already dissipated again. He wouldn’t be able to break Burlot and Trotter. With what? None of it was enough. The nagging feeling was back; something was happening in the inaccessible spheres of his brain. It felt as though something was about to link up. But what? It was enough to drive him mad.

“Come back to Belle-Île, Riwal.”

“Captain Zinc wants to get home, boss. Understandably.”

“Take him with you. See you later, Riwal.”

“Ken emberr, boss.”

Dupin hung up and hurried back into Cosqueric’s office.

“Anything else on the menhirs?”

Dupin looked at Kadeg.

“No.”

“On the center?”

“No.”

Only then did he address Burlot and Trotter: “Do either of you have any connection with the Smart Island Initiative?”

This time Trotter spoke first: “I’ve read about it, but, of course, I don’t have anything to do with it, no. Why would I?”

“And you, Monsieur Burlot?”

“No.”

“Do you stand to profit from it in any way?”

“Not at all. Our sheep breed plays no role in it. But I think it’s an important project.”

“Right, then thank you for coming, messieurs.”

“But Monsieur le Commissaire”—Kadeg could barely conceal his disappointment; he had presumed they would escalate things, make temporary detainments—“you said…”

“It’s fine this way, Kadeg.”

Manuel Trotter had already stood up; Tenom Burlot seemed a little more hesitant.

“We must ask you both not to leave the island,” Dupin added, “under any circumstances. That includes fishing trips or anything of that nature. We’ve found the shed where Monsieur Zinc was held captive. Let’s see whether we find traces of the perpetrator there.”

Burlot paused for a moment, in an inscrutable way, then, like Trotter, headed toward the door. Dupin had left it open. Cosqueric, Kadeg, and Dupin were now alone. The commissaire walked over to the window and updated his colleagues on Riwal’s report.

“Shouldn’t we put the two of them under surveillance?” Cosqueric had come to stand next to Dupin. “Trotter and Burlot?”

Dupin had already contemplated that.

“We…” Dupin ran his hands vigorously through his hair. “Okay. Yes. Let’s have them tracked.”

How that would even work on this small island—having someone watched, unnoticed—Dupin was far from sure. But it was worth a try.

“The lab in Quimper has been in touch. There were no signs of a struggle on Madame Griffon’s body. No hematoma, no skin beneath the fingernails, nothing like that.”

Dupin merely nodded. It would have been almost too perfect, having an actual clue.

He looked at the time.

“I have to go.”

At twelve, they would start serving the bon in Goulou.

Maybe it was the magic potion that would bring them closer to solving the case.

Dupin was rarely on time down to the second, but this was the exception.

It was midday. Precisely.

The ceremony was taking place in the distillery, fittingly, for it already had an alchemistic atmosphere. The ritual was carried out by Byn Fidelin. A brass pot stood on a narrow gas stove at the far end of the room, looking like it had been part of the sacred procedure for a hundred years already, and like it would be for many more to come.

“It’s the oldest method of coffee preparation.” Byn’s gaze was fixed solely on the pot, in utter concentration.

So far Dupin was the only guest. Fidelin had added a large quantity of fresh, finely ground coffee powder into the pot. “Coffee dust!” Dupin had never heard the wonderful term before; it sounded like “stardust.” “Ground by hand, of course.” Monsieur Fidelin had pointed toward a wooden coffee grinder, the kind Dupin knew from his childhood. Then Fidelin had added water. Now he was heating up the mixture and stirring it with a very long stainless-steel spoon.

“No wood. That would bring out entirely the wrong notes.”

It sounded like exquisite wisdom. Dupin revered genuine savoir-faire. The culture of humanity was concentrated within it. Breton culture in particular.

“The most important thing, of course, is the coffee itself. The variety, its origins, the roast. For the bon, it needs to be powerful, full-flavored, aromatic. And velvety too! We only take beans from Ethiopia, Yemen, or Brazil. And pure spring water from the island.”

So it really was a Celtic potion.

“We heat up the mixture, but don’t boil it. Keep it at just under boiling point!” These were serious instructions. “And carefully and continually stir, remembering just one thing: you need to allow the aromas to unfold as much as possible.”

A challenge Dupin was only too happy to follow. Especially because the aromas were already unfurling quite considerably.

“It…” Byn Fidelin didn’t finish the sentence. All at once he seemed changed. It was almost eerie.

“Agnès. She’s dead. And I’m … I’m making my bon. Is that okay? Should we be doing that? She…” He faltered. “She loved the bon very much. She used to come here from work at lunchtimes especially. Just for this coffee.” A long pause. “Margot said we should do it today for that very reason.”

Byn Fidelin wasn’t expecting an answer; he had been talking to himself.

“We’ll drink to Agnès. A genuine bon.”

For one brief moment he lifted his head and looked at the commissaire. Dupin saw the sadness in his round, dark eyes.

“At least Albert is almost home. And alive.” His voice sounded brighter now. Dupin had wanted to tell him the news, but Tenom Burlot had already called everyone.

“At least,” echoed Dupin, a little robotically.

“Stir it until the coffee sinks down!” Fidelin shifted his attention back to the ceremony, turning the flame higher. “Now, almost bring it to the boil. But,” a stern warning, “not too quickly and not completely, you have to give the aromas time. And,” this warning sounded even more insistent, “don’t stir any more from this point! Put the spoon away.” He laid it aside demonstratively.

The aromas had now filled the entire room. Maximal aromas, triggering maximal insanity in Dupin, even though so far, they were unfolding only in the air, not yet in his mouth. They also mingled with the already strong base aromas of the room: of the whisky. Together, the impact was phenomenal.

“Stirring now would destroy the coffee foam, and that’s the most precious thing. Look.”

It was magic. Before their eyes, a delicious-looking, fluffy foam materialized—more and more of it.

“Just before it reaches boiling point,” Byn Fidelin continued, his actions and words in sync, “take it off the stove,” now he used both hands, “and let the elixir cool down briefly. Repeat this twice.” He put the pot back on the flame.

Dupin was transfixed.

“The aim is to get as much foam as possible. The consistency is key!”

He raised his chin.

“You drink it very hot.”

Dupin was prepared. No matter how hot the elixir turned out to be.

“We have a glass of cold water beforehand, to sensitize the gums.”

Water wasn’t really Dupin’s thing, but if it enhanced the enjoyment of the coffee …

“Generally speaking, the method is similar to the classic mokka coffee. The corsairs brought it to Europe. To Saint-Malo. We Bretons were the first to use it.”

Dupin had heard about this.

“Although with mokka you add sugar and spices, and we don’t do that.”

Fidelin picked up the pot and went over to the door, heading for the bar.

“We drink it from small, shallow glasses. Like cider glasses. Margot makes them herself.”

Margot Fidelin’s trade, the ceramics, Dupin kept forgetting about it. And about the planned expansion, which would now surely go ahead.

They stepped into the bar.

It had been empty just a short while before. Now, all the tables were full. About fifteen people, Dupin estimated, had gathered here in the interim. Clearly all bon enthusiasts.

All gazes followed Byn Fidelin, who was carrying the pot before him as though in a procession, his expression celebratory. “Ahh”s and “ohh”s could be heard in hushed tones. The proprietor nodded to them. He seemed to know everybody.

Just before the counter, which held numerous small, earth-toned cups, Fidelin stopped.

“The delicate suspended matter gives the coffee a dense texture. You only drink the upper three-quarters, leave the rest. We then tell each other’s fortunes from the grounds.” This last piece of information was imparted just as matter-of-factly as the instructions before it. “Just upend the cup onto a saucer, and your future will lie before you like an open book.”

He filled one of the cups with ceremonial gravitas.

“Et voilà!” Byn Fidelin beamed; the ritual had reached completion: “Servir un bon.” The concluding magic words.

Dupin picked up the cup reverently. It felt a bit like first communion. He anticipated something wonderful.

“Commissaire!”

There was no mistaking the voice. Dupin almost cried out “No!”

Le Menn rushed into the bar. She came to a halt and looked around in confusion at the crowd.

“I have to speak to you immediately, Commissaire.”

She turned back around.

Heavyhearted, Dupin put down the cup.

“I’ll be right back,” he announced, and left the bar, with all eyes on him.

Le Menn was waiting outside the door.

“What’s…”

“The dog,” Le Menn interrupted him. “Provost’s dog, Louis. He was floating in the sea, dead. In the neighboring bay.”

“What?”

“At the Plage de Donnant. A few minutes from here. Vacationers discovered him, the tide was washing him up toward the beach. We’re on our way there.”

Dupin saw the frog-green van parked in front of the house, and inside it, Kadeg and Cosqueric.

“How do we know it’s Provost’s dog?”

“There are two pictures of him in Provost’s office. Kadeg took a photo of them.”

Dupin remembered the photos.

“I’ll come with you,” he grumbled. “I mean, I’ll meet you there.”

His expression thunderous, he walked back into the bar.

“I just need twenty minutes,” he called to Byn Fidelin, who was busy serving. “Then I’ll drink it,” Dupin added. Just to make it clear. His cup was still on the counter, he noticed with relief.

“I’ll pour you a second, then you can have it fresh, don’t worry.”

Moderately reassured, Dupin set off.

The dog lay in the dry, fine-grained sand.

The two gendarmes who had arrived shortly before had pulled the animal out of the water. His usually voluminous long-haired coat, white and brown, clung drenched to his body. He was a big dog. The dainty, narrow head that Dupin was so fond of in collies looked strangely angled. Perhaps his neck was broken.

“He hadn’t been in the sea that long.” Kadeg’s mood was particularly somber.

He was right; that was odd. Something had seemed strange to Dupin even at first glance, but he couldn’t have said what. He squatted down and studied the dog closely.

“What do you think, Le Menn?”

The policewoman had knelt down next to him.

“No idea how long exactly, but certainly not a week.”

“That’s for sure,” confirmed Cosqueric, who was standing next to Kadeg. “We’d best get him to the lab as soon as possible. Then we’ll find out quickly when and how he died.”

“Perhaps he’s been dead for a while and the kidnapper only just threw him in the sea.” Kadeg shrugged.

Dupin stood up.

He walked down toward the sea, which, as it was low tide, had retreated a long way out. He only came to a standstill once he reached the shoreline. In every bay, on every beach of the island so far, Dupin had thought to himself: It doesn’t get more beautiful than this. And it was exactly the same this time. At low tide, an immense sandy landscape emerged here, with numerous large coves and rocky outcrops. There was the pink, shimmering sand, the dunes, the silvery-green dune grass that Dupin loved so much, and long tidal inlets, mini-seas in their own right, left behind by the tide. The rocks sloped down gently, stubby grass growing on their rounded crests, forming bright green patches. And lichen, in all colors. Dupin stood there for a few minutes without moving. Deep in thought. His hands in his pockets. The thing with the dog was strange. Dupin’s gut feeling was that he hadn’t been in the sea for long, and what’s more: that he hadn’t been dead long either.

He abruptly turned on his heel.

“I’m driving back to Goulou,” the commissaire announced once he reached the small group.

“We’ll join you,” replied Kadeg eagerly. “Riwal is coming soon too. We really need to have a briefing.”

One of the gendarmes had fetched a large, heavy plastic sheet from the car. He spread it out next to the dog, pulled him onto it, and wrapped it up with the help of his colleague.

“Then I’ll see you there!” Dupin trudged through the sand toward the parked cars.

Five minutes later, he stepped into the bar at Goulou for the second time this lunchtime. It was still bustling. He looked around for Byn Fidelin but couldn’t see him anywhere. One of the guests pointed toward the neighboring room. Just as Dupin had hoped—Fidelin was brewing the second pot.

“Ah, there you are,” the owner greeted him. “And perfect timing too.”

Heavenly aromas filled the room. “Did you know that coffee aroma is comprised of about a thousand different individual aromas? With wine, there are only about four hundred.”

Dupin hadn’t known that, or rather: on some level, he always had. There had to be some reason he was so addicted to it.

“Pay attention to the caramelized hazelnuts, the dark chocolate, the ashy notes, the overripe dark berries. And the jasmine!”

Dupin believed every word Fidelin was saying, no matter how crazy it sounded.

“Here you go!” Fidelin handed him a cup.

He poured carefully.

“There, finally, the heavenly elixir. Enjoy.”

Fidelin walked past him with the pot into the bar.

Dupin thought for a moment.

Then he stepped through the narrow door, between the barrels, directly into the garden. The landscape and the coffee: for a few short moments, it would be perfection.

Dupin was standing next to the large flowerpots, in front of the light-blue wooden boat. The sea in the bay seemed increasingly infatuated with its turquoise shades, as though it wanted to try all of them out. It began with crystalline, delicate, and hesitant tones, but the deeper the sea became, the darker the colors. To the left-hand side, the view stretched past the house to the terrace with the bright-yellow umbrellas. The heat was brooding, oppressive, unbearable; it seemed even hotter than yesterday.

Dupin had the cup in his hand. Now he would finally be able to try the bon.

His cell phone rang.

He briefly contemplated letting it ring.

But it was Riwal.

“What is it?”

“We just arrived in Le Palais. Kadeg brought us up to date. It’s a strange thing, with the dog. Zinc and I are driving to Islonk with two gendarmes. The captain’s already feeling a little better, boss.”

“Anything else, Riwal?”

“We…” A hesitation. “We’ve got new info on the Acadians. It seems there’s a kind of ‘inner circle,’ a small group, six people who meet separately and engage in island politics. Informally, of course. Alongside the mayor, Margot Fidelin is also part of it.”

Dupin was suddenly wide awake.

“What do you mean by ‘island politics’? What specifically?”

“Well, preliminary decisions. Where to get involved and where not to, and I imagine they also try to keep business between themselves wherever possible.”

“More specific, Riwal.”

“I don’t have anything more specific.”

“Is Albert Zinc one of the six?” Now the Acadians really were starting to sound like a Masonic lodge.

“No. Besides the building contractor, there’s also a doctor, a notary, and two hotel owners, all wealthy.”

“Any connections to the Smart Island Initiative?”

“As I said: the building contractor will profit from it. As far as the others are concerned, I’m not sure.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“My neighbor. It’s harder than I thought, they’re as thick as thieves.”

“Anything else, Riwal?”

“No.”

“Get Nevou and Nolwenn to continue looking into those six people. See you soon, Riwal.”

Dupin hung up. Margot Fidelin, he had seen out of the corner of his eye, had stepped out onto the terrace and was now looking across at the bay. She looked drained, weary.

She hadn’t noticed Dupin. Making the most of the opportunity, he took his first sip of bon.

He had never drunk anything like it. Something so exquisite. A distillation. Coffee, but in a different intensity, reduced to its essence. He would reach the thousand aromas for sure, if he ever began to count.

“Ah, Monsieur le Commissaire!” Dupin was dragged back to reality.

He quickly took a second sip.

Margot Fidelin was walking toward him.

“Pure happiness, am I right?”

Dupin nodded. It wasn’t just the taste that was phenomenal, but the effect it had. He’d felt it with the very first sip.

“The secret’s in the shallow cups. It lets the full aroma unfold!”

She smiled briefly. And yet she still looked exhausted.

Dupin took another sip. The delicate scent of lavender, which was growing into gigantic bushes in the pots, intermingled with the coffee aromas. The lilac blossoms were drooping a little more than yesterday, it seemed.

He turned to look at her: “It seems you’ll soon be able to carry out the extension for your glass and ceramics business, Madame Fidelin.”

“Oh yes.”

“And presumably you’ll also try to buy this house?”

“We will.”

“All the dreams are coming true at once.”

It was exactly as Riwal had said.

“We’ve been waiting long enough.”

Heavy solemnity lay in her words.

“But the fact it had to happen like this, that…” She broke off. Then she composed herself: “I can’t bear it, the thing with Agnès. I don’t understand. I mean, it’s terrible. It…” She paused once again.

“It really is, madame, terrible.”

Dupin drank the last sip. He would have liked to savor it more. Then he heard himself say: “The plants, madame, you haven’t watered them over the last few days, have you?”

Something had occurred to him. As though out of nowhere.

Margot looked baffled.

“I mean, here in the garden. The pots, the lavender, the herbs, the meadow here. Anything at all here behind the house?”

Dupin made his way between the large lavender bushes toward the light-blue boat, which was fastened upside down on a trailer, just like all boat owners kept them here in Brittany.

“No. Of course not. We’ve not been allowed to since the week before last, this insane heat wave. Water is scarce here on the island.”

Dupin reached the boat. His focus was on the grass in front of it. Squatting down, he ran his hand across it.

Dry. The meadow was completely dry.

He did the same thing across different spots. He circled the boat. Inspected the patch of meadow that extended from the garden entrance to the end of the property. Dry.

“What are you doing?” Madame Fidelin had followed him.

“When did you last use the boat?”

“Our boat? Hmm. At the weekend. Sunday morning, early. My husband went out fishing. We take it down to the water below in the bay. Right down there.” She pointed toward the finger of sand.

“Not since Sunday?”

“No.”

Dupin swiftly pulled out his notebook. Flicked through it.

There! He had remembered correctly. The times of day. That was the key. And wet grass. About which, of course, there was nothing in his notebook. But he remembered anyway.

“I’ll be back shortly, Madame Fidelin. Please excuse me.” He turned toward the bay and had already walked a few footsteps when he looked back. “I don’t want you to leave Islonk, madame, you and your husband. Stay here in the house.”

“But Monsieur le Commissaire.” She reacted with a mix of indignation and concern. “What’s going on? Why not?”

“I’ll be back soon, madame.”

Dupin was already walking toward the end of the garden. He climbed nimbly over the hip-height old stone wall that surrounded the property.

Within seconds, his cell phone was at his ear.

“Boss?”

“Where are you, Riwal?”

“I just arrived in Islonk. I’m taking Zinc home. He needs to lie down and hydrate. He—”

“Kadeg, Cosqueric, Le Menn, and the Fidelins. I want to see everyone in Goulou. Call everyone together. Please ask the other guests to go. In five minutes, no, wait…” He needed a bit more time to think.

“Boss?”

“Let’s say in a quarter of an hour.”

“Okay, boss.”

Riwal knew that it was pointless to ask Dupin questions at fraught moments. And the moment seemed very fraught.

Dupin reached the sand. He kept going, toward the sea, not even registering the landscape. Not registering anything. His thoughts were racing.

Dupin had walked to the plateau, to the fantastical Monet rocks, the place where he had stood yesterday. His feet had found the path as though of their own accord, like he was sleepwalking. His brain was working at full speed; a wonderful state. Dupin felt content, and that was a rare occurrence. It was the miracle coffee. The magic potion. The situation had changed. He now had a lead. For the first time in this case. Even though it wasn’t yet decisive. But he would launch in, and then see what happened. Sometimes there was no other way.

Byn Fidelin was standing at the counter when Dupin stepped inside Goulou for the third time that day. A calm, friendly nod. The magical coffeepot before him. There was no sign of his colleagues or Madame Fidelin. Dupin crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace. Riwal, Kadeg, Le Menn, and Cosqueric were sitting close together on the bench that backed onto the wall of the house, and Margot Fidelin was on the other bench. Each of them held one of the shallow cups in their hand.

“Would you please now tell me what’s going on, Monsieur le Commissaire?” Madame Fidelin’s tone was assertive, but not aggressive.

“We’re going inside.”

Without another word, Dupin went back into the bar. The others followed. In the middle of the room, he stopped. “Sit down, Madame Fidelin. I’ll explain it all to you.” Dupin’s voice was completely calm.

Madame Fidelin looked hesitantly at her husband, but his expression remained relaxed. She chose the first table, and the police team sat down immediately next to her.

“Monsieur,” Dupin addressed Byn Fidelin. “If you would sit down with your wife?” He wanted to keep an eye on them both.

Byn Fidelin sat next to her, without raising any objection.

Dupin waited.

A strange silence set in.

It was soon broken by the commissaire. He moved slowly toward the Fidelins. “It was your boat that took Captain Zinc to the Île d’Houat yesterday. I want to know who was operating it.”

Sheer horror filled Margot’s face, while Byn’s held the same patient expression as always.

“What are you talking about, Monsieur le Commissaire?” Margot Fidelin struggled to regain her composure. “What’s led to such an allegation? That’s ridiculous.”

“When I arrived here yesterday evening at half past ten, the grass around the boat was wet. Very wet. But,” he paused, “you haven’t been watering it, Madame Fidelin. You just told me so yourself. Not since the week before last.”

He let the words sink in.

“Boats that are hauled ashore continue to drip for hours.”

After ten years in Brittany, a person knew things like this. You could see it everywhere: the dinghies on the quays, huge puddles of water forming around them, lasting for hours even in the blazing sun. It flowed out of cracks you couldn’t even see. It was astonishing, really, how much of the sea lingered in a boat long after it had been brought onto land.

“Madame Fidelin, you said you hadn’t used the boat since Sunday. But it has been in the water. Quite clearly. Yesterday, to be precise. Yesterday afternoon.”

Now desperation appeared in Madame Fidelin’s eyes. Dupin looked at her husband.

“What kind of outboard engine does your boat have, monsieur? How powerful is the engine?”

“Sixty horsepower,” came the answer, without hesitation.

Dupin was no expert. But he knew sixty horsepower would give a boat of this size considerable speed.

“How long does it take you to get to the Île d’Houat with your boat?”

Dupin realized only now that he still had his hat on, but didn’t move to take it off.

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

Byn Fidelin seemed as grounded and good-natured as always.

“Riwal? What do you think?”

“That’s about right, boss.”

“So the whole operation—the journey from here to Le Skeul, then from there with Captain Zinc to Houat, imprisoning him in the shed, and the return journey—would have taken about two and a half hours. Maybe three. The call to Zinc’s brother was made at four fifty-two.”

“What are you getting at with all this, Monsieur le Commissaire?” Madame Fidelin’s tone was now openly aggressive, no longer containing any trace of desperation or horror. “That my husband and I kidnapped the captain? Blackmailed and murdered Provost? Murdered Agnès? Us?”

A cold, penetrating stare.

“Possibly. I don’t know yet.”

It was an honest answer.

“You know very well we were here yesterday and this morning. There are witnesses.”

That was the problem.

And there was another one: as well as the person who had taken Zinc by boat to Île d’Houat, there had to be a second person, otherwise it wasn’t plausible: the person who had kidnapped Zinc. That person had driven by car to Le Skeul, intercepted him there, and knocked him unconscious. The Fidelins could have split up, of course, one in the boat, one in the car, but neither of them was close to one eighty in height, the build of the kidnapper Zinc had described. The perpetrator in the car couldn’t be Byn or Margot. And yet, Dupin was sure of it: it had been their boat that was used for the kidnapping. From the bay here. He would bet anything on it. Anything.

“Think hard, madame, monsieur,” Kadeg weighed in. “Who can testify to where you were yesterday between three and seven in the evening? If you can’t think of anyone, things aren’t looking good for you.”

Dupin had begun to pace up and down the room. “I want us to bring Tenom Burlot and Manuel Trotter into the conversation.”

Cosqueric stood up.

“They’re both here in the hamlet, your colleagues told me.”

Le Menn stood up too: “You get Trotter, I’ll get Burlot.”

The two of them set off.

Madame Fidelin fidgeted uncomfortably on her chair.

“I still have no clue what you’re planning, Monsieur le Commissaire, but I have things to do. I have to go to a meeting in my workshop at two thirty, which is in ten minutes.”

“Your meeting will have to wait. Everything will have to wait.” Dupin looked at Riwal. “Get Forensics to go over the boat in minute detail. Until then, no one goes near it, so post an officer to guard it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Riwal already had his phone in his hand.

Dupin headed toward the terrace door.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he called, leaving Kadeg with the Fidelins.

The menhir researcher and the sheep farmer had sat down at the table next to the Fidelins.

“This is the second time that—” Manuel Trotter began.

“The dog,” Dupin calmly interrupted, only to then fall silent for a while. He positioned himself in front of the Fidelins and the two men. “Provost’s dog, Louis. He was still here over the last few days. Monsieur Trotter”—he fixed the researcher with his gaze—“heard him barking at night. He’s just been found dead in the sea, in the bay at Donnant. He hadn’t been in the water long.”

Dupin looked at them each in turn. Without haste, almost infuriatingly slow.

“So what you said isn’t true.” Dupin left it vague whom he was addressing. “That the dog had been missing for over a week.”

They had all made the same statement. All the neighbors. Apart from Trotter.

“That’s nonsense.” Madame Fidelin shook her head scornfully. “We haven’t seen him for ages. Or heard him. None of us.”

“Monsieur Trotter heard him last Saturday, or even Monday.”

“I…” Trotter looked baffled. “I’m not really sure. It was you who made me doubt myself. Perhaps it was longer.”

“There, you see!” exclaimed Madame Fidelin.

“We now also know how the kidnapper got Albert Zinc to Île d’Houat.” Dupin moved a little closer toward Trotter and Burlot. “With the Fidelins’ boat. One of the kidnappers grabbed him in Le Skeul, and the other took him from there to Houat on the boat.”

Dupin was feeling increasingly certain. He could still feel the coffee, as though electricity were coursing through him.

“The person who took Zinc to Houat was in all likelihood the same person who went by boat to Le Skeul. The other drove off with the car they had arrived in. So it was the man from the boat that Zinc caught a glimpse of on Île d’Houat.”

Dupin tried to reconstruct the events step-by-step, for his audience, but primarily for himself. He sensed he was really close.

“A man, over one eighty.”

“We already went through this at the station,” commented Trotter, unmoved.

“It wasn’t me,” the sheep farmer said in his gentle voice. “As I said, I didn’t commit any of these crimes.”

Dupin turned away from them.

“Cosqueric, have you spoken with Yvonne from the bakery personally? Where Monsieur Burlot bought the baguettes yesterday and this morning?”

“I have. Tenom Burlot was definitely there. At the time he said.”

“How many baguettes did he buy? Yesterday? Today?”

“I don’t know.” Cosqueric shrugged his shoulders.

Dupin looked at the sheep farmer.

“Four.” Burlot looked confused. “I told you who I bought them for. Four today. And yesterday…” He thought for a moment. “Yesterday three.”

Dupin began to pace up and down in the bar once again. He still couldn’t put the puzzle pieces of this tragically intermingled reality together. The different alibis were complicating things. They blocked everything. But at least he now had a few of the pieces. The boat, the dog, the tall man, and the supposed sequence of events. These enabled him to imagine the individual strands of the crime, although admittedly they couldn’t yet be woven into a story. He was going around in circles.

“And these three baguettes yesterday…”

Dupin was suddenly hit by an attack of dizziness. Or rather, more like a thought. A monstrous thought, a staggering idea. Strictly speaking it was one single word. It echoed through his mind.

In the very next moment, he rushed off.

Out of the bar. To his car. He left everyone sitting there at a complete loss. By now Dupin was sitting in his Méhari, starting the engine and slamming his foot onto the accelerator. Little stones flew up. As he turned, Le Menn and Kadeg hurried out of the bar—he swerved and braked sharply.

“Fetch Madame Corbel! Bring her here to Goulou. Right now. No matter what she’s doing. No matter what she says.”

“But we—” Kadeg wanted to interject.

“Bring her here!”

The engine roared once again.

The commissaire steered with one hand and pulled out his cell phone with the other.

A particularly sharp bend to the left. He waited, then dialed the number.

“Monsieur le Com—”

Evidently she had recognized the number.

“I have to speak with you, Madame le Maire. In Goulou, in thirty minutes.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question…”

“In Goulou. In thirty minutes.”

“Impossible.”

“See you then, Madame Megret.”

Dupin had hung up. The time for protest was long gone.

He drove through Le Petit Cosquet, and at the village’s exit, he floored the gas pedal and took the D25 toward Le Palais. He reached the narrow estuary that led to the harbor. Only now did he realize he didn’t have an exact address, but he would find it regardless. He knew the name. In smaller locations like this, there were always signs. He drove along the Quai Gambetta. Dozens of boats lay on both sides, lined up next to one another, pretty sailboats. On the left bank was the hill with the majestic fort that towered over everything.

Le Fournil. There it was. The bakery.

A right turn, then another.

Route de Bangor.

He soon saw it. He parked right in front of the shop and jumped out of the car.

Thursday afternoon, three o’clock, perfect beach weather; Dupin was the only customer. A weary-looking older woman was leaning behind the counter.

“Madame Yvonne?”

“That’s my boss.”

“Is she here?”

“Should I get her?”

“That would be nice of you.”

She disappeared without a word, and a woman of around forty years of age appeared; she wore her hair in a short ponytail, and had a warm smile and shining eyes.

“Bonjour, monsieur. You wanted to speak to me? How can…” She looked at Dupin and laughed.

“Aren’t you that commissaire from Tahiti? I saw a photo, in Le Télégramme. With the lovely cap. And the orange car.”

As usual, he had forgotten to take it off.

“You might be able to help me, madame.”

His gaze fell on the intricately arranged chocolate tarts in the display.

“Well, it seems you like chocolate! Do you know the famous island chocolatier, Thomas? A true genius, he’s been making his chocolate creations here in Le Palais since 2001.”

She went to the other end of the counter, where the display was filled with chocolates. Haphazardly broken blocks in all varieties.

“Madame, yesterday morning Tenom Burlot came in here. At roughly seven thirty. You served him. The sheep farmer from Islonk.”

“I know him. And yes, I did. Kir already asked me about it yesterday. Kir Cosqueric. Tenom was here, I can confirm that. And the time too. It’s all correct.” She reached for a piece of chocolate and held it out toward Dupin. “Try this. Eighty-four percent cocoa, but unbelievably creamy.”

“What did he buy?”

“Baguettes.”

“Just baguettes?”

“Just baguettes.”

“How many?”

She held the piece of chocolate persistently in front of Dupin. He took it; it seemed he wouldn’t be able to avoid trying it.

“You want to know how many baguettes he bought?”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s supposed to help you solve the murders?”

“Madame, I…”

“Sometimes he just buys one or two, sometimes three, four. Or more. It varies.”

“I’m only interested in yesterday and today.”

“Hmm.”

She pressed her lips together, raised her eyebrows.

“I couldn’t tell you, not with the best will in the world. It’s manic at that time of day. The queue is sometimes fifteen meters long.”

That was how you recognized the really good bakeries.

“Go on, try it.”

Dupin pushed the piece of chocolate into his mouth in order to avoid further discussion.

“Very good.” He chewed. “Fantastic. Really.” He genuinely meant it. There weren’t a thousand aromas, but enough to get enthusiastic about.

Dupin looked across at the cash register. The baker followed his gaze.

“A really old-fashioned system. It adds up everything in the evening. And spits out little receipts for the customers.”

Dupin was familiar with these little scraps of paper. Within just a few days, his jeans pockets generally filled up with them.

“But it records the individual purchases by time, doesn’t it, madame?”

“Oh, yes, but from all the staff. In high season there are three of us until ten o’clock. Do you know how many customers each person serves in five minutes?”

Dupin was familiar with that too.

“How on earth could we trace that back now?”

The baker was now standing behind a display of biscuits.

“You must try these too. Traditional Breton biscuits, La Bien Nommée, also made on the island…”

“I’m familiar,” said Dupin; and it was true, Riwal brought them into the office from time to time. “Really fantastic.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “Inspector Riwal, he’s one of yours. Of course.”

“Exactly. And you really don’t remember how many baguettes Monsieur Burlot bought? One? Several?”

“At some point over the last few days he bought six. But I can’t remember when it was. Sunday, perhaps.” She tilted her head to the side, and seemed to be thinking intently. “But another day it was just one.”

Dupin wasn’t making any progress. “Burlot says it was four today and three yesterday.”

“Hmm. Could be.” Nonetheless, she looked skeptical.

This was pointless. Dupin gave up. And yet: this information could be all-important.

“Are you familiar with the crème de caramel au beurre salé? She reached for a glass jar next to the biscuit packets.

A splendid idea that only Breton people could come up with: crème caramel with loads of salted butter.

“Of course, it’s incredible, madame. I’ll write my number down for you. Perhaps you might remember something.”

“You’re an optimist, I see.”

Madame Yvonne turned, picked up a narrow notepad and pencil, and laid both before Dupin on the counter.

“Thank you, madame. Au revoir.”

“It was a pleasure, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

She still seemed to be in a good mood.

Outside, Dupin moodily got into the car and pulled the cap down low. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Damn it!” This could have been it. And it was the only possibility. There was nothing else. It was enough to drive him mad. He turned the key in the ignition. The engine almost drowned out the sound of his phone ringing.

An unknown number.

He reluctantly picked up.

“Monsieur le Commissaire?”

He couldn’t place the voice.

“Speaking.”

“This is Yvonne.”

“Yes?”

“From the bakery.”

Now he recognized the voice. On the phone she sounded completely different.

“I’m still in front of your bakery.”

The situation had a note of the absurd.

“I’ve remembered something.”

“Yes?”

Dupin sat bolt upright. He turned the engine off again.

“Nolwenn bought eleven baguettes yesterday. She has the children with her.”

“Nolwenn?”

“Nolwenn, the pharmacist. Her three children are staying, with the grandchildren, she has a house…”

“And?”

“Tenom Burlot was in the queue right behind Nolwenn, I just remembered. And eleven baguettes at once, I can easily find that on the cash register list.” A pause, Dupin heard a rustling sound. “I’m just looking.”

Dupin fell silent. He waited.

It took a while.

“Here! I’m really good. Eleven baguettes traditions. Seven thirty-three. And then seven thirty-four. That fits.”

“Yes?”

“Two.”

“Two?”

“Two baguettes. No more. Wait, I’ll have a look at the other cash register entries, as I said, there were three of us yesterday morning. It can’t have been before seven thirty-four.” She seemed to be thinking out loud. “Here. A second entry for seven thirty-four. Damn. And another for seven thirty-five.”

Dupin waited.

“Hmm. Let’s see. The other entry at seven thirty-four, it’s for four baguettes!”

The result was just the same as before: inconclusive.

“But,” a triumphant tone, “here there were also two pains au chocolat and four croissants. That wasn’t him.”

“A pause.

“And on the entry for seven thirty-five, that was a single baguette. Also a tradition. But that means: even if that were Tenom Burlot’s receipt, he either bought one or two yesterday. No more. That’s for sure. I think it was two. But today, I’m really not sure.”

“Wonderful!”

It was unbelievable.

“That’s all I need to know, Madame Yvonne. Really wonderful.”

It really was enough. He had what he needed.

“I think you’ve just solved the case, madame. Do me a favor and take good care of that cash register list. I’ll be in touch. Speak soon.”

“Okay, Monsieur le Commissaire.” She sounded very pleased with herself.

Dupin turned the ignition key once again.

A smile appeared on his face.

This was it.

He had just reached the imposing city gate of Le Palais when his cell phone rang again.

Nolwenn.

It was always precarious, driving the Méhari, which had no power steering, with just one hand.

“Yes?”

“The nice boss of the Aéro-Club just called me. I presume you know Madame Megret is about to take off from there.”

“What?”

“Monette Megret is just about to fly. To the Île de Ré. At least that’s what she’s put on the flight log.”

Dupin felt hot rage surging within him.

“When precisely?”

“Within the next few minutes. She’s already on the plane.”

“I’ll call back, Nolwenn.”

“Well, then chañs vat—good luck, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Furious, Dupin floored the gas pedal. It wasn’t far. Once again, the car shot at top speed through the summertime landscape mosaic. A few times, he saw and heard sheep. Like always, he underestimated the braking at the D25 crossing. And as always, everything flew off the passenger seat.

Three minutes later, he drove up to the airfield. He saw a small white plane, even smaller than the one from yesterday. It was just taxiing onto the runway. Dupin didn’t pause to think. He steered toward the barbed-wire fence and accelerated once again. The fence snapped like a match, and yet he still felt the impact. Something beneath the car didn’t sound good. Dupin drove straight toward the runway. Almost right in the middle, he did an emergency brake.

Monette Megret ramped up the airplane’s engine, and all at once began to tear forward. She accelerated at lightning speed. But the stretch ahead of her wouldn’t be enough.

Dupin didn’t budge the Méhari from the spot.

Only at the very last moment did the mayor decelerate. She came to a standstill just before Dupin. But only just.

He was about to jump out of the car, his gun drawn, when he heard his cell phone. With one hand he picked it up from the floor of the car.

Riwal.

An incredibly inconvenient moment.

“It’s really bad timing, Riwal, I—”

“Corbel. She’s trying to leave the island. She’s already on the ferry. The captain of Vindilis called Cosqueric. It wasn’t being watched, but Cosqueric told the ferry companies to notify us if any of the suspects tried to leave the island.”

“Good job.”

All of a sudden everyone seemed to be making themselves scarce.

Dupin had to keep a cool head.

“Have her brought to Goulou at once.”

“Gladly, boss.”

“And get the captain to come too, Riwal.”

“I don’t think Zinc is in any state…” The inspector didn’t complete his objection. “I’m on it.”

Things were coming to a head, and quite frantically—to Dupin’s great contentment.

He leaped out of the car. Madame Megret was sitting in the cockpit, staring at him with contempt, without making the slightest move to get out. Dupin ran over to the door of the plane. The mayor seemed to think for a moment, then opened the door so forcefully that she only just missed Dupin.

He didn’t even blink.

“What are you playing at, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Get out, Madame Megret. You’re coming with me.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now if you don’t free up the runway.”

“Just get out, madame.”

“I have an urgent appointment on Île de Ré. They’re interested in our Smart Island concept, the mayor and an entire delegation are expecting me.”

“Then they’ll be waiting in vain.”

“I also refuse to tolerate that gun.”

For a few moments she seemed undecided, then she sighed deeply.

“I can’t just leave the plane…”

“Yes you can.”

She rolled her eyes, breathed in and out theatrically, reached for her handbag, and climbed out of the plane.

“This will have serious consequences, Monsieur le Commissaire,” she hissed.

“Yes, I agree.”

Dupin moved toward his car, gesturing for the mayor to get in on the passenger side. She already had her phone at her ear. “Maître Pascal?… This is Monette Megret … Unfortunately, I have an incredibly irritating problem and need your immediate assistance.”

Dupin started the engine.

They were all there.

All of Islonk, which within just twenty-four hours had lost two neighbors. All of Islonk—and the mayor. Madame Corbel had been the last to arrive, accompanied by two gendarmes and complaining in a loud, shrill voice. The two men, Trotter and Burlot, were sitting at one table; the mayor and Madame Corbel at the second; and the Fidelins and Albert Zinc were at the table near the entrance. The captain was wearing a neck brace, and both of his wrists were bandaged. He had changed and was now wearing dark-blue chinos, a matching polo shirt, and comfortable slippers. But he still looked drained, depleted. “This won’t take long, monsieur,” Dupin had said by way of greeting.

After Madame Corbel’s tirades had ebbed away, and a few sharp comments from Madame Megret, it went strangely quiet. Only Dupin had exchanged a few words in hushed tones with his colleagues. He was in no hurry. Not anymore. The tension in the room was tangible. And this was precisely what he wanted.

“Right, let’s start.”

The commissaire was standing in the middle of the bar. His hands in his pockets.

Everything was quiet.

“It wasn’t easy to solve. But then in the end, it actually was.”

He waited, then lowered his voice and spoke at an emphatically slow speed.

“All of you, not one, but all.”

His words were barely comprehensible.

“All of you—it was all of you together.”

Disbelieving faces, all around.

“Apart from Monsieur Trotter. He’s innocent.”

It took a while for someone to react. Madame Corbel, naturally.

“If that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s in very poor taste. Who do you think you’re talking to here? I’ve already informed my lawyer. He’s on his way. And you know what?” She stood up. “I’m just going to go. This is a deprivation of personal liberty.” She began to move toward the door. Dupin didn’t budge from the spot. He saw that Kadeg had readied himself. Dupin looked at him, nodded his head.

“I’m taking you into temporary custody, madame. All of you, in fact.”

“You can’t do that!”

Madame Corbel paused.

“This is disgraceful, Monsieur le Commissaire.” The mayor now reacted too. “My lawyer will be here shortly as well.”

Dupin didn’t respond to the women in any way.

Without haste, he turned to the sheep farmer.

“Monsieur Burlot, you said you bought three baguettes yesterday morning.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t. There were just two, monsieur, two, no more.” Dupin had begun to walk up and down between the tables, his gaze wandering from one person to the next. “Which means,” he paused for a short while, “that at most one other person received a baguette from you. If at all. But it certainly wasn’t two of your neighbors, as you claimed.”

Now he stopped in front of the Fidelins.

“But you,” he addressed Margot Fidelin, “and Madame Corbel confirmed you each received a baguette from Tenom Burlot. So you were lying.” Dupin crossed his arms over his chest. “And even more decisively: not just one of you lied, but all four of you. No one contradicted it, and that can only mean one thing: you agreed on a story.”

Dupin let his words take effect.

“You suddenly needed firm alibis. So you wanted to provide them for each other in retrospect.” Once again, he began to walk around between the tables. “The same with the dog. All of you, apart from Monsieur Trotter, unilaterally said you hadn’t heard or seen him for over a week. You colluded in this lie too.”

He stopped in front of Tenom Burlot and looked at him.

“I was just in the bakery. Madame Yvonne has all the cash register entries from yesterday morning. They prove what you bought—and what you didn’t.”

“It must be a mistake. Perhaps she entered it in wrong.” His gentle voice had suddenly turned anxious, seemingly completely against his will.

“Why would we have done that?” Margot Fidelin raised her head high. “What would be the motive?” Her eyes had narrowed and she looked like a different person. “Why would we have blackmailed Provost? Kidnapped Albert? Murdered Agnès? And which of us? What do you mean by ‘everyone’?”

Dupin paused for a moment before answering.

“There wasn’t any blackmailing, madame. Nor a kidnapping. Just two murders.” He continued his pacing between the tables. “It was only ever about Patric Provost. He had to disappear. You wanted to make him disappear. One of you was to kill him on his boat in Doëlan and throw him in the sea. You knew about his annual expedition. It was the perfect opportunity.” Dupin was still speaking incredibly slowly. “You knew the tide would come; you knew the enormous strength of the currents when the Atlantic flows out of a ria. These currents were supposed to pull Monsieur Provost out to sea forever. He wouldn’t have come back yesterday evening. And you, the concerned neighbors, would have noticed it, perhaps this morning, and informed the police. His boat would have been found, and a major search launched, twenty-four hours after his disappearance. But, of course, in vain. The search would have been brought to an end after a few days. Like it always is. It would have been considered a tragic accident. These things happen. And it’s not uncommon here in Brittany. People go overboard. The sea sweeps them away. They disappear and are never found.”

Dupin stopped next to Madame Corbel, who was rooted to the spot. Her features had turned to stone. She looked at him, full of contempt, even hate.

Undeterred, he continued. “Your plan was simple, but perfect. None of it was that complicated. But unfortunately,” he smiled at the retired teacher, “unfortunately things went wrong. Provost did what he always did, even as a dead man. He ruined your plans, ruined your life’s dreams. His dead body got caught against a buoy, and was spotted.”

Yet again Dupin paused in the middle of the room.

“When you heard the news, you had to take immediate action. You needed a story. You didn’t have much time. One, two hours, then the police would turn up. You needed to create a diversion, bring other motives into play. And you did it. Money, mysterious perpetrators. You remembered the blackmailing case from Nantes. An ideal model. So you wrote the blackmail letters. And then you had the idea about the dog. That made the story even more credible, and most importantly, it created an alleged clue: that the blackmailing had taken place over a week ago. And the whole thing would have worked well, if it hadn’t been Monsieur Trotter whom Provost had rented the house to. Once again Provost got in your way … Then someone did away with the dog. Only yesterday. And threw him in the sea.”

Dupin paused.

“I…” Manuel Trotter stood up. “I think I can go now, can’t I?”

“You can, monsieur.” Dupin nodded absentmindedly.

The menhir researcher made a beeline for the door. Trotter’s words had broken the spell that everyone had been under. Madame Corbel strode resolutely toward Dupin: “This is outrageous, and you will pay dearly for it.”

“She’s right! It is outrageous!” Margot Fidelin stood up too. The four police officers immediately jumped to their feet, Kadeg first. He headed toward Madame Fidelin, who stared at him in disbelief. Madame Corbel towered up before Dupin as though she were planning to hit him. He was prepared for anything.

The commissaire moved toward the captain, who seemed to be in his own world and so far hadn’t said a word. “As I said, there wasn’t a kidnapping. It was staged”—Dupin paused right in front of Zinc—“and intended to lead us down the wrong track once and for all.”

Dupin looked down briefly, then up again.

“That too—was a pretty perfect plan.”

He stared at Zinc.

“You were tied up, because it had to look real, and even beat up in order to convince us. Then you were taken to the island, where the plan was for you to eventually free yourself, as you then did, in order to draw suspicion onto someone specific. Manuel Trotter. A man with a height of over a hundred and eighty.”

Albert Zinc blinked; he seemed to want to say something. But then he didn’t. He gave up. It was pitiful.

“Monsieur Burlot had the firm alibi with the bakery. Monsieur Trotter didn’t have any. But because Monsieur Trotter wasn’t the murderer, as you knew, it was clear we wouldn’t find any other clues in the end, not even vague ones. And so this line of inquiry would evaporate too. That’s what you were counting on.”

This was how Dupin imagined it, at least; he was far from knowing everything. In particular, which of them had actually committed the murders.

“I presume Agnès Griffon had an attack of conscience and wanted out. Perhaps she wanted to go to the police. And that’s why she had to die. I’m sure you’ll tell me in a moment.”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind!” Corbel’s tone was openly hostile. “You’re delirious, Monsieur le Commissaire, you clearly can’t cope with the heat!”

“Eventually we would have classified Agnès Griffon’s death as collateral damage, that was your intention.”

In a macabre way, it was impressive how precisely they had manipulated the police.

“We would have presumed she knew something she shouldn’t have, that she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dupin headed toward Byn Fidelin.

“I presume it was you who took Zinc by boat to Île d’Houat.”

Byn Fidelin’s expression was inscrutable.

“Answer me, monsieur.”

“Leave my husband alone!” Margot Fidelin leaned forward, as though she wanted to shield him.

Byn Fidelin remained silent.

Dupin leaned his back against the counter.

“It would have been on one of those evenings here in Goulou. Perhaps during the long autumn and winter months. During the storms. When no one comes onto the island and you’re by yourselves for months on end.”

Dupin remembered Riwal’s image of the many little islands within the island. The hamlets that formed their own small worlds.

“Perhaps it was a wild, stormy night when you were gathered here together. Over a whisky. And perhaps you were telling each other stories, like always. Of your goals, plans, ideas, dreams. The stories of your possible lives, how happy you could be if you could do everything, if Provost didn’t stand in the way of everything. Destroy your dreams out of pure malice. And perhaps the thought suddenly arose: What if he was no longer around?”

Dupin looked at each and every one of them.

“In the beginning it was just a fantasy, a macabre play of the imagination. And only too easy to understand. I mean, Provost really did boycott everything. Some people only find purpose in making other people’s lives more difficult, and perhaps that was the case for Provost. These kinds of people exist. And you sometimes think: What if he or she didn’t…”

The words hung darkly in the room.

“At first it was just a throwaway comment. In the heat of the moment. Perhaps it was a day when yet another frustrating thing had happened.”

Once again Dupin looked around him.

He addressed Margot Fidelin: “Perhaps he had just definitively prohibited the expansion of your workshop. Dashed your dreams. Or perhaps,” he turned toward Burlot, “he said you would never hold any position of responsibility in his sheep-breeding business—and that you’d have no chance of developing your own, because he would oppose it.” Now he turned to Madame Corbel: “You yourself said you couldn’t wait for him to die. So the path would be cleared for the new museum building. After all, everyone else was already supporting your plans … And the same applies to Agnès Griffon. All at once there would have been no more husband, no more arduous negotiations with lawyers, no indignities, no opening up of old wounds, no legal process. Plus the compulsory share from the estate. All of you had a motive. Even you.” Dupin returned to Zinc. “Even though for you it wasn’t as big a matter as with the others. But still.”

Dupin didn’t wait for a reaction now either, but instead turned to the mayor, who had remained surprisingly quiet. “And you, madame, you knew you’d hit the jackpot. But you didn’t need the money in ten years’ time, you needed it now. It was now or never. Your chance was there, the chance to make a name for yourself not just in Brittany, but all over France and Europe. The first green island of the continent! Ahead of everyone else. You could have started a completely new career. In politics, in the economy.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Madame Corbel seemed to want to move toward the door again. “What are you basing your ridiculous story on? An un-bought baguette? Tenom buys baguettes for us so frequently, we just got the day mixed up. We were upset, in shock. Our neighbor had been murdered. Or are you basing it on some crazy menhir researcher who can’t even remember when he heard the dog? By the way: perhaps someone locked the poor animal up a week ago and only killed him yesterday. On the same day as Provost. Once it became clear that he wouldn’t pay. Do you know what, Monsieur le Commissaire? Do you know what we’re going to do now? We’re going to leave. Just try and stop us!”

She marched over to the door.

Dupin was far from nervous. Even though, at this moment, he really couldn’t prove anything concrete. The wet meadow, the dog, the baguettes, it wouldn’t be enough. Madame Corbel was leading the way: she would just claim he was dreaming up a fantastical story, one that admittedly pulled together all the threads and made the whole diabolical thing plausible, but which was nothing more than fiction.

“Micheline is completely right.” Margot Fidelin jumped up. “We’re going to—”

“No, she isn’t.”

Byn Fidelin had interrupted his wife.

“She’s lying.”

He stood up slowly.

“We were all lying.”

He lowered his gaze.

Then he came toward Dupin. “And you,” he met Dupin’s gaze, “you’re right, Commissaire. About almost everything.”

He stood up tall.

“It … It was us. We did it together. We thought it up together, one winter’s night. No storm, but there was rain, more than three weeks of it. It was relentless.”

He took another step toward Dupin.

“Yes, in the beginning it was kind of a game, just make-believe. We…”

“Byn!”

An almost hysterical shriek.

“Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?” Margot Fidelin dashed over to him. Kadeg was quicker. He reached her within seconds, grabbed her arm and held her tightly.

Byn Fidelin continued undeterred.

“A few days later, the subject came up again. What if Patric was no longer around … It became an obsession, took on a life of its own. Then one day we joked about drawing straws, to decide who would do it.”

Margot Fidelin began to sob. It seemed feigned.

“Even then we acted as though it was a joke.” Byn Fidelin’s eyes looked empty, ghostly. “I … I drew it, the short straw.” He looked down at the floor. “Eventually it started to sound almost normal. A goal. A plan. Margot pushed the idea, she and Micheline.”

It didn’t sound like an accusation or denunciation. He was just giving his account.

“And I … I didn’t argue. I can’t remember”—his voice was toneless, but not self-pitying—“when things got serious. But at some point, they did. We never officially decided, we just talked about the possible approach. One evening Margot came up with the idea about Patric’s uncle’s birthday. It seemed perfect. That way it wouldn’t even have to happen on the island, but the mainland. And of course, we thought his body would never turn up…”

He paused.

Cosqueric had stood up and was moving closer to Monsieur Fidelin.

“And Agnès…” Now he was struggling to speak. But he seemed to want to finish. “She couldn’t take it anymore. After it … happened. After I’d done it. Suddenly, yesterday night here at the bar, she said we had to turn ourselves in. That she couldn’t live with it. She was at her wit’s end.”

It was clearly taking all of Fidelin’s strength to keep talking.

“She said she was going to the police. At one point she completely broke down. Margot tried to reassure her, gave her a few whiskies. And Valium. She said she should sleep on it, and that we would discuss things in the morning. She took Agnès across to bed. Margot didn’t trust her anymore. And then”—as though in slow motion, he turned to his wife, whose face was contorted with rage, contempt, and despair—“when she saw Agnès leave her house really early this morning, she followed her.”

“I see.” An icy coldness lay in Dupin’s words.

That was it, the entire ugly story.

“I never thought they would actually do it.” Madame Corbel shook her head vehemently. “I thought it was just a game, nothing more. An evil little fantasy like everyone has from time to time. Anyone who says that’s not the case is lying…”

“Stop it, Micheline! I can’t listen anymore.” The captain, clear and composed. “Just be quiet.”

The great Bernhardt admirer looked at him, aghast, but fell silent.

“If we’re now discussing the question of who was actually involved in this crime and how, and not just in your imagination, Monsieur le Commissaire,” the mayor reached for her handbag, “then I can go. Because as I’ve already told you: I wasn’t involved. Not in any of it.” She stood up. “My plane is waiting for me.” And with that, she turned toward the door. Le Menn dashed over to her.

“She’s right.” Albert Zinc again. “Monette has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.”

Le Menn looked questioningly at Dupin. The commissaire hesitated briefly, then nodded. He had been wrong on this point. He had been convinced she was in on it. But he had no reason to doubt Zinc’s words, which nobody had contradicted.

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Monsieur le Commissaire.” The mayor had already reached the door. But all of a sudden, she paused. “It’s unbelievable. This entire story.”

Dupin couldn’t tell whether she meant it or if it was just posturing.

“This is a dark chapter in the history of Bangor. The entire hamlet, full of criminals!”

A second later, she was gone.

Dupin had had enough. He didn’t want any more of this. Couldn’t take it anymore.

He felt disgust. The feeling had arisen slowly, then become increasingly intense. It came from deep inside him. Now they knew the truth. They knew everything they needed to know right now, and undoubtedly they would soon discover any missing details. Not least because the neighbors would now tear each other to pieces and reveal everything in order to exculpate themselves.

Dupin turned to his colleagues: “Take them away. All of them.”

“Okay, boss.”

“I just want to assert once more that I—”

“That’s enough!” Dupin interrupted Madame Corbel. He didn’t want to hear another word. He just wanted to get out. He disappeared through the door to the terrace. Then he walked through the garden, climbed over the low stone wall, and headed toward the wild plateau. Toward Monet’s incredible rock needles.

Dupin had walked a long way. Through the scorching, shimmering afternoon heat. Longer than he’d intended. He’d needed to move, couldn’t take it a second longer. His phone had rung a few times. He’d let it ring—and hadn’t even checked who it was. In a way he was deeply exhausted, yes, but there was something else. It was hard to describe. He felt emotional, damaged.

There was one call he really needed to make; it was high time.

“Monsieur le Commissaire! There you are at last!”

A reproach.

“And I must say—chapeau!”

Praise. That was rare from Nolwenn.

“You solved the case just in time. The party isn’t endangered! Bravo.”

Of course, it was about that.

“It makes sense really—Islonk!”

Dupin didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant.

“Islonk: the abyss! Where’s your Breton knowledge, Monsieur le Commissaire! But fine, you had other things on your mind.”

That was one way of putting it.

“Riwal told me everything. It’s a particularly sickening story.”

It really was.

“Talk about saludin un amezeg—to extend a friendly greeting to a neighbor! More like ‘a dirty sheep always rubs up against another dirty sheep’: an ancient Breton saying.”

That sounded right.

“Anyway, it’s time to come home, Monsieur le Commissaire, it’s over now.”

Dupin had to pull himself together.

“My car’s still in Islonk. And I need to run a quick errand in Le Palais.”

“Just leave the Méhari at the quay. Put the key in the glove compartment. I’ve spoken to the car rental company.”

“Great.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then, Monsieur le Commissaire. The big day! Ken emberr!”

“Ken emberr, Nolwenn.”

Dupin put his phone away in his pocket.

Just now, when he had reached the plateau, he had been convinced once again that he could see land. Just like yesterday and this morning, in the south, where there was no land. A coast this time, a rocky coast with garishly green cliffs, even more majestic than the ones he was standing on. They reminded him of the Cliffs of Moher, in the farthest, wildest reaches of western Ireland, which he had once visited many years ago. He wasn’t wearing his cap; it was still in the car. The sun beat down on his head mercilessly. That must be why. Or was it another one of those sneaky optical illusions? For the fraction of a second, he felt slightly dizzy. Accompanied by a strange sound, like the zoom of a camera. Then the rocky coast disappeared, and the horizon was clear again.

Dupin began the walk back.

The hamlet looked abandoned.

There wasn’t a soul to be seen, nor cars. Just Dupin’s Méhari. It was a sad sight, and not even its gleaming orange could change that. Islonk was like an abandoned village. It was eerie. The door to Goulou stood open, which also seemed fitting. Like the set of a horror movie. Two neighbors were dead; five were in investigative custody and would soon be imprisoned. With long sentences, albeit of differing lengths. But no one would get away with it. Islonk, the abyss.

In truth it was heaven on earth, no matter what the name meant. The hamlet, Goulou, the entire region. Just like the island itself. A wonderful piece of nature, a little paradise that moved magically through space. Ultimately, it seemed that Belle-Île really was the fairy queen’s tiara, floating in the sea.

“Hello, boss!”

Dupin jumped.

Riwal. He had just come out of Goulou.

“I waited for you. The five are already in the gendarmerie, with Cosqueric. They’ll be taken to the mainland by boat, then by car to Vannes.”

Dupin nodded.

“It’s mad, this whole thing, it really shakes your faith in humanity, boss.”

Dupin felt that regularly.

“Goulch is already waiting for us down by the quay.”

The commissaire headed for his car. He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

The inspector closed the door of Goulou.

Ten minutes later, they climbed out of the Méhari. They had parked in front of an old boathouse with a big glass front, a huge display window. Next to it was a lilac sign with white writing: Fluïd. Dupin hadn’t forgotten, thankfully; he knew Claire would have been very disappointed.

They were set out in the display window for everyone to admire, arranged like an art installation: the hundred glasses in a hundred colors. Dupin bought the ones Claire had listed. And he got something else too; a small, bizarre glass rock that looked like one of Monet’s cliff needles. Or, depending on how you looked at it, a menhir. Claire would like it.

A short while later, they were standing with two lilac bags on the Quai Bonelle, right where their island adventure had begun the day before. As always, the harbor was bustling with activity. Sunburned, unshaven, with the cap on his head and the shopping bags in his hand, Dupin looked like a tourist.

The commander of the island brigade had come to say good-bye to them, and stretched out his hand to Dupin: “Safe travels. It was a pleasure, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Commander.”

It was true. He liked Cosqueric.

“I’ll call you this evening, Monsieur le Commissaire, to update you on progress.”

“You do that.”

Dupin wished it wasn’t necessary. But unfortunately it was.

“Now there’ll just be all the paperwork, I’m afraid.”

Regrettably, Dupin knew only too well what the commander meant.

“You can keep that, by the way. A souvenir.” Cosqueric tapped his finger to his head. It took a moment for Dupin to catch on. The cap!

“Thank you,” Dupin replied, slightly embarrassed.

Cosqueric smiled. “It’s not easy to keep the reporters at bay”—he pointed along the quay, where Dupin saw two men with professional cameras—“and you just can’t escape those telephoto lenses.” It must have been the perspective the photo had been taken from yesterday, when he arrived. Which also made it clear which photo would be on the front page of the papers tomorrow. Nonetheless: in this respect, too, Cosqueric had done an incredible job.

“Right, then.” Dupin clambered onto the Bir.

Riwal was already on board, standing next to the captain’s cabin, near Kadeg and Le Menn. Goulch’s men immediately untied the ropes. The engines revved up, the Bir turned and made its way out of the small picture-postcard harbor. Dupin was too exhausted to worry about the boat trip. Cosqueric lifted his hand into a wave; Dupin did the same. His gaze swept across to the crazy orange car on the quay. He had become fond of that, too.

Then he took the cap off his head, so it wouldn’t fly away.

The Third Day

It was half past seven.

Dupin had barely slept. This had been a hard case, and an upsetting one.

Claire had worked the night shift, so he’d been alone the previous evening, after his return—and hadn’t even had the strength to go into the Amiral. Instead, he had plundered the fridge and found a piece of cheese, some salted butter, and a tomato. And the bottle of Languedoc he had opened a couple of days before.

He had feared a restless night, and put off going to bed for as long as he could. He had sat on the terrace and looked at the sky, losing himself in the endless sea of twinkling stars. The Milky Way was visible, that hazy, mysterious band of light. He had tried to think about himself and Claire, but of course, that was a silly idea in his current state. One thing was certain: for him, nothing had changed, his feelings were completely clear. He would do anything for her. Anything. Perhaps he really should do something? Yes, he would. He would do something.

He had gotten up ten minutes ago and made himself a café. Then he pulled on his bathing trunks and went to the beach. The night had barely cooled the temperatures. In the east, it was already light enough to see the world, their beach. Almost directly in front of the house. Small, but with wonderfully fine white sand—and incredible colors that became ever more vibrant through the course of the day.

Dupin felt restless.

Where was his friend?

He couldn’t see the seal anywhere.

Dupin dove in. It was wonderful. Cool, fresh. Finally. He had been longing for this amid the island’s searing heat. The clear water made him feel clear too. Everything felt suddenly different, the world looked different. He should have gone swimming last night.

But—where was it?

Dupin swam out far, the stretch he always swam. He did the crawl for the last few meters to the buoy.

Then, all at once, he saw it. Right in front of him. The pointed head, the snout, the long white whiskers on both sides and the sparkling dark eyes.

A smile spread across Dupin’s face. A happy smile.

The Ty Mad was a jewel.

Dupin had discovered the hotel and its restaurant by chance a few years ago, when a case brought him here. It was an almost unassuming jewel, which lay hidden in the narrow, winding lanes of Tréboul, where the fishermen used to live.

It didn’t get more beautiful than this. The extraordinary light of the Baie de Douarnenez, the extraordinary atmosphere, lively and lighthearted. Matisse, Max Jacob, and other painters, writers, musicians, and bohemians had once savored the full flair of the Breton summer here.

Instead of the dark-blue polo shirt, Dupin was wearing a dark-blue button-down shirt. But he had stuck with his jeans. Claire was wearing a knee-length, sleeveless dress, also in blue—“somewhere between cobalt and pearl-night blue”—that looked wonderful with her pale-blue eyes and Norman blond hair. She looked breathtaking; but then, she always did.

The party began with an aperitif in the garden. In a light-green forest of bamboo, interspersed with little islands of white pebbles with comfortable chairs and wooden tables. Later they would move on into the restaurant, to the conservatory with a view of the Bay of Douarnenez, which was alleged to be the most beautiful in all of France, beneath which lay the golden city of Ys. The Celtic Atlantis.

Armelle, the manager of Ty Mad—Douarnenez was traditionally in the hands of strong women—had put on a special show for the evening: their legendary chef Didier Lecuisinier had spent a long time perfecting a surprise menu. On arrival there was Suzes Ty Mad, a summer drink, so cold and fresh, or an equally ice-cold Muscadet. (Over the past few weeks, they had had numerous tasting sessions at the commissariat.) Alongside, oysters from the Île de Sein with a seaweed emulsion were handed around—Dupin was besotted with them—as well as smoked mackerel on Breton buckwheat blinis, and a seaweed chutney with apple cider vinegar and confit apples as well as the local specialty, freshly caught sardines marinated in citrus and olive oil.

The scents of the delicacies floated through the garden, enveloping it, mingling with the aromas of the herbs and plants. For the first time in weeks, there was a light breeze.

“Right then, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Nolwenn tapped her glass with her fork. She was standing in the middle of one of the pebble islands, with around forty guests gathered around her. “He who eulogizes, lies, as we Bretons say,” began Nolwenn, “so we tend to refrain from eulogizing.”

That was something, at least: the evening wasn’t in danger of becoming sentimental.

“But a few words must be said nonetheless, Monsieur le Commissaire.” She gave Dupin a stern glance. “It’s best I don’t start with your Breton beginnings, because they were hopeless.”

Nolwenn had never been one for flattery.

“But in Brittany, we know there are good horses in all colors and good people in all countries. We didn’t give up on you. So, let’s concentrate on what matters most. There’s actually only one important question on an occasion like this!”

You had to hand it to her: she knew how to have her audience hanging on every word.

“Over the last ten years, have you now become a true Breton—or not?”

Nolwenn inserted a long pause.

“You know you don’t become a true Breton by birth, faith, or heritage, for us it’s not about blood and all that nonsense. No, it’s much simpler than that, and simultaneously much more difficult: being Breton is a question of outlook, attitude, philosophy—toward life, the world, people, and all our fellow creatures.” Nolwenn’s tone turned excitable for a moment, but she composed herself again. “Naturally, there’s no official checklist of these qualities that can be crossed off, point by point, but you can still name a few prerequisites of being a true Breton.”

In other words: there was indeed a Nolwenn-esque list.

“I’ll just run through it.” She suddenly produced several pieces of paper. Dupin had a sinking feeling.

“A vivid imagination: Oh yes, you have that in abundance! Paired with pragmatic realism and decisiveness in the real world. Relentlessly stubborn, with gruff, grouchy moments: That’s no problem for you either. An entrenched need for freedom, a rebellious nature, contrariness, and, as a result, insurmountable difficulties with authority: You embody all of these, one can’t help but admit it … A distinct love of food and drink, together with an instinctive aversion to water: Full marks.”

Nolwenn’s tone remained serious.

“Then, of course, there’s the boundless enthusiasm for Brittany and the awareness that it’s the beginning and end of all things: That point, to be honest, could be improved upon, Monsieur le Commissaire!” A sensitive minus, Dupin knew that. “In addition, the fundamental psychological and physical inability to perceive rain, in other words, to even notice you’re getting wet: You’ve truly mastered this, so full marks again here. The untiring Breton enthusiasm for storytelling: Regrettably, this requirement is incredibly important for the overall ranking, and we’ve not been able to award a single point here.”

There was a points system, an overall ranking? This whole thing was taking an outlandish turn, Dupin thought.

“Radical openness and tolerance, that everyone can be as stubborn as they want, or rather: as stubborn as they can possibly be. Stubbornness is a Breton imperative, tics and quirks to the point of being really quite odd: Full marks again. A love of Celtic music…” Nolwenn’s expression darkened. “Here I really need to insert a complaint!”

Dupin would have liked to protest, but she wasn’t wrong.

“So—and now we come to the fundamental prerequisites.”

The ones mentioned so far hadn’t been?

“A pronounced love of life, which, because it’s so all-encompassing, is always aware of the presence of Ankou, death.” A brief dramatic pause, then: “You’ve demonstrated this with impressive effect.”

Dupin wasn’t entirely sure what Nolwenn meant. But it seemed to have earned him more points.

“Respectful recognition of the Otherworld, the knowledge that there’s much more between heaven and earth than our minds can comprehend: not a single point!”

Nolwenn sternly raised her eyebrows.

“Right then! These, naturally, are just a few points of the Breton existence. Our list originally included sixty-seven requirements, and we had to edit them severely.”

Nolwenn took another breath.

“To summarize: during our analysis we came to the following conclusion.”

“That conclusion being,” Riwal now took over, as the whole thing was clearly choreographed, “that we will award a total,” another pause, “of three plus. A good, satisfactory mark.”

“That’s an excellent result for a Parisian after only ten years in Brittany!” Nolwenn clapped enthusiastically. It was heartfelt, too, you could see it in her expression. Riwal clapped as well. The other guests joined in.

Dupin wouldn’t even begin to think about the rating system, it was futile; and besides, judging by the others’ reactions, it genuinely seemed to be an acceptable result … A smile spread across his face.

“And now to the most important part of the evening,” beamed Nolwenn, “the remaining courses of the menu. I’ll hand over to Armelle.”

With ceremonial gravitas, Armelle presented the delicacies: “As a starter, we have the finest mussels the Atlantic has to offer: ormeaux from the Île de Sein, with small crêpes au blé noir and wild herbs. Followed by lieu jaune in a seaweed crust, and then pink salt marsh lamb with piment d’Espelette, admittedly not the one from Belle-Île, Georges, but still incredibly tasty.”

A joyful anticipation arose among the guests.

“And later, cheese, a Breton Tomme du Ménez-Hom. The menu will be rounded off with an omelette bretonne, flambéed with Lambig.”

It sounded heavenly.

“We’ll be drinking a white Sancerre and a red Côtes de Provence, Domaine Château Léoube,” concluded Armelle.

They certainly would. And plenty of it. All the guests were staying overnight at Ty Mad; Claire and Dupin had the room at the very top, on the third floor, overlooking the bay.

“Bon appétit, everyone.”

Armelle gave the signal for them to move into the restaurant.

The garden lay in the enchanting light of the evening sun. Nolwenn stepped over to Dupin, raised her glass, and gave him a conspiratorial look: “As we Bretons say: Let’s live!”

ALSO BY JEAN-LUC BANNALEC

Death of a Master Chef

The Body by the Sea

The King Arthur Case

The Granite Coast Murders

The Killing Tide

The Missing Corpse

The Fleur de Sel Murders

Murder on Brittany Shores

Death in Brittany

About the Author

International bestselling author Jean-Luc Bannalec lives in Germany and the southerly region of the French department of Finistère. In 2016 he was given the award Mécène de Bretagne. Since 2018 he has been an honorary member of the Académie Littéraire de Bretagne. He is also the author of Death in Brittany, Murder on Brittany Shores, The Fleur de Sel Murders, The Missing Corpse, The Killing Tide, The Granite Coast Murders, The King Arthur Case, The Body by the Sea, and Death of a Master Chef. You can sign up for email updates here.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

AN ISLAND OF SUSPECTS. Copyright © 2021 by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch. Translation copyright © 2025 by Jamie Lee Searle. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover design by Rowan Davis and David Baldeosingh Rotstein

Hand-lettering of author name by D. Soleil Paz

Cover art: Pointe des Poulains lighthouse © Hemis/Alamy

eISBN 9781250893123

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Originally published in Germany by Kiepenheuer & Witsch as Bretonische Idylle

First U.S. Edition: 2025