From a man who isn’t about to go into any circle, who will never be locked away, who will teach me the meaning of true freedom.

I have a contract. I have a mission. Natale Angeli gave it to me.

To persuade my Papé Cassanu. And believe me, if you don’t know me yet, I’ll do it!

*

*     *

He closed the notebook and hid it under his jacket.

A killer, a game of death, according to Nicolas Idrissi, the master of the game.

That was the purest truth.

38

20 August 2016, 12 p.m.

Clotilde waited. Cervone Spinello had taken five minutes to emerge from the toilet. Perhaps he was freshening his make-up, or perhaps it was just a manoeuvre to keep her waiting. A few more minutes added to twenty-seven years. One last, mean act of revenge.

She turned toward Cervone as soon as he stepped into the corridor of the mobile home, making no attempt to hide her impatience. The campsite manager merely froze with a look of concern, pointing at the old German’s photographs.

‘Are you still sure you really want to know what happened?’

He didn’t wait for her answer, he didn’t look at Clotilde, but simply continued to stare at the pictures.

‘You remember, Clotilde, the night of the twenty-third of August, your brother Nicolas had suggested going to a nightclub, the Camargue, just past Calvi, while your parents spent the night at Casa di Stella. They were supposed to climb up there, leaving the Fuego parked on the road by Arcanu Farm. Nicolas had planned to borrow your parents’ car, in secret, and take everyone who could pile into it for a spin. You will also remember that his plan involved a Phase B, to leave all the others on the dance floor, while he reserved a sofa for himself and Maria-Chjara. With the help of mojitos and a few joints, he hoped to take his beautiful Italian to a place that might have been less comfortable, but was a lot more discreet. You remember all that, Clotilde?’

So far, yes.

‘Yes.’

‘And what happened next. How can I tell you? Nicolas didn’t go boasting about it. Certainly not in front of his beloved little sister. Because in fact Maria-Chjara was dragging her feet. Not about the sofa, the weed, the rum cocktails and what they wanted – both of them – to do afterwards. As far as that was concerned, Maria-Chjara was quite willing.’

His finger stopped again on the photograph of the campfire, Alga beach, Maria-Chjara with her head resting on Nicolas’s shoulder while he played the guitar. Cervone’s finger caressed the Italian girl’s long, loose black hair, then her short, low-cut white blouse, her skin bronzed by the day’s sun and the midnight fire.