The Granite Coast Murders: A Brittany Mystery by Jean-Luc Bannalec

Author:Jean-Luc Bannalec [Bannalec, Jean-Luc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781250753069
Google: vp-KzQEACAAJ
Amazon: B08BYBFVS7
Goodreads: 53137968
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2021-05-11T05:00:00+00:00

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Dupin headed down the glorious path to the sea at a sprightly pace; past the thalasso center where Claire was now enjoying her massage, over the wild and rugged headland between the two beaches to the Plage Grève Blanche.

Behind the beach were huge sand dunes covered in glimmering bushy grass that fell steeply down to the beach. Partly washed away. Huge stones that looked as if they’d been carted here to avoid anything worse. At the beginning of the year the front pages of Ouest-France and Le Télégramme had had spectacular photos of a colossal winter storm accompanied by an unusually high tide that had struck the land, sweeping away vast amounts of sand and even a few boats.

If it weren’t for these high dunes, this part of Trégastel would have been defenseless before the raging ocean. It was unimaginable on a gentle high summer’s day like today, when the sea lay rippling and calm.

The sand really was a blinding white, and the beach, vastly bigger than the one Dupin and Claire lay on, lived fully up to its name. A gentle curve that turned into a sandy, stony tongue of land and linked up with the Grève Rose coming up from the south. Just to make the picture perfect, there was a bizarre pink granite islet at the farthest tip of the tongue of land. The “White Strand” was properly considered one of the finest beaches in Brittany. On either side of the tip the sea was calm, clear, and in bright Caribbean layers of color: first crystalline clear blue, then emerald green, then turquoise, then gradually into green-blue and finally deep blue. The island, perhaps a hundred meters long and surrounded by small neighboring islands, lay there like a gigantic fish in the water. Bright green grass amid the pink granite made for a crazy contrast.

Even though the colors were the same in the protected bay of Ploumanac’h, the atmosphere was quite different. The beach, the landscape, the whole world here was exposed to the open sea; everything was more wild, more rough. Even the color tones here weren’t in the slightest warm or mellow, but clear and sharp, as if they were perpetually whipped by the sea breeze.

Dupin searched the dunes for a way down to the beach, found it, then stopped to take a look at the map.

The Rue du Roi Arthur had to be just around the corner.

Two minutes later he was standing outside number 47. A new building. Angular, three floors, flat roof, plain and simple.

VIVIANE RABIER. ÉLUE CONSEIL RÉGIONAL DE LA BRETAGNE. A discreet sign. Third floor. The highest.

Dupin took the stairs, not the elevator. A young man, thirty at most, came down the hallway to meet him. He had tousled blond hair sticking in all directions, and wore a rumpled bright blue shirt. It looked as if Dupin had just woken him.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’m Aiméric Janvier.” He spoke with a subdued, almost conspiratorial voice and looked nervously around the bare corridor.

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