‘Never mind, Hermann. And you can’t think of anything else?’

‘Well I can, in fact. Go back and see my father. He didn’t just collect photographs, he always talked to everyone on the campsite. I think he came up with some kind of theory. Something that bothered him after your parents’ accident, something that didn’t add up, but he only talked about it to my mother, Anke, not me.’

Clotilde didn’t dare to admit that she’d heard nothing from Jakob Schreiber for a couple of days. She felt even more cowardly as Hermann went on.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m getting a bit worried about my father. He has an open invitation to stay with us, with his son and his grandchildren, in our villa on the island of Pag in Croatia, it even has a swimming pool, yet the stubborn old mule prefers to spend his holidays in Corsica, all alone, in his mobile home.’

The Cyclops’s haughty self-assurance irritated Clotilde again. Who, amongst his entourage, could imagine the shy and intimidated teenager he had once been? Hermann had started from scratch; like everyone does, he had rewritten the story of his life. Clotilde fought the urge to call him by his nickname, just to bring him face to face with his past. The German got in first.

‘Go back and see my father,’ he said again. ‘He spent his whole life pinning down the past with that camera of his, the way other people pin butterflies. He was like a spy, with his zoom lens pointed at anything that seemed unusual, his single eye, even though I know it was me that you lot called the Cyclops!’

~

‘Take a seat, Clotilde.’

Cassanu’s words dragged her from her thoughts. Later. She would think again later about the questions raised by Hermann Schreiber. Her grandfather seemed to be breathing more regularly now. He pointed at the rock nearest to him, inviting her to sit down. Below them, to the north, the citadel of Calvi seemed ridiculously small compared to the town that now sprawled its way on to the slopes of the Balagne. It hadn’t looked that way to Clotilde twenty-seven years ago.

Papé’s voice didn’t quiver. He turned his neck and looked up at the huge wooden beam he was leaning against.

‘You remember, my dear girl, in 1989, the cross that was here before? The wood was rotten, the nails were rusty, it threatened to come crashing down on us. Since then they put up a new one, which didn’t last very long, and then another, this one, less than three years ago. At least the Austrians are consistent.’

‘Why did you want to meet here?’

‘For that.’