Clotilde was aware that the contrast between them must have been striking. She had come straight from Oscelluccia beach after a night spent in the hull of the Aryon. She hadn’t showered, she wore no make-up, no perfume, and she still carried on her body the taste of Natale’s kisses, the marks of his caresses, and inside her the warmth of his sperm.

Aurélia carefully looked her up and down.

Could a woman smell that on a rival? The scent of forbidden love?

It didn’t matter, even if Clotilde wasn’t showing herself to her best advantage, she still enjoyed playing the role of the panther, the alley-cat breaking into the territory of her Angora rival, letting all hell break loose.

They didn’t greet each other, Cesareu Garcia didn’t give them the time. He walked in front of his daughter and his son-in-law, crushing the picture postcard with the great mass of his body.

‘Come on, Clotilde. We haven’t much time. Give me the keys, Aurélia.’

He took the bunch from his daughter’s hand and pulled Clotilde towards a shed a few metres away from the house. The building looked like a dark garage, with no windows or adornment. Four stone walls and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A chair. A table. And stacked on iron shelves fastened to the walls, dozens of cardboard boxes which seemed to be as well organised as the old wines in a sommelier’s cellar.

‘They’re very useful, these shacks,’ the retired policeman observed, closing the door behind them. ‘You can find them all over the coast, they were used as shelters for the shepherds when they moved their flocks down towards the sea. Walls half a metre thick, flat clay roof, no need for air conditioning inside, as safe as a bunker. I keep all my archives here, my equipment, my memories, all the things I wasn’t able to leave at the station when I retired. I come back and work here from time to time. I have more room here than I do at home, and it’s nice and cool. In my own stupid house the sun gets in on all sides.’ He looked around at the blank walls lit only by artificial light. ‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking, that it’s stupid to come to Punta Rossa, with the sea all around, and lock yourself up in a cellar. So I’ll tell you, Clotilde, and strictly between ourselves – having the sea right in front of me all the time makes me sick of it! Like having a woman, even a very beautiful one, in front of you every single morning.’

We haven’t much time, Clotilde heard the words inside her head. But the retired policeman seemed determined to talk about everything but the case. She decided to cut straight to the chase.