‘OK, OK,’ she said to Garcia. ‘Orsu was an unwanted child. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.’

The retired policeman seemed relieved. For him, the hardest part was over.

‘Is it the blood ties that make you say that?’ A brief hiccup of laughter made his shirt slap against his fat belly. ‘It’s true that the Idrissi family don’t tend to inform on one another.’

Clotilde suddenly raised her voice.

‘Baron! My surname is Baron! Maître Baron. And for now, Orsu just needs a lawyer.’

Garcia searched for a dry flap of shirt to wipe his face with but didn’t find one. If the conversation continued, the old policeman would shrivel up right there, dehydrated like a beached sperm whale.

‘Well, now I need your help,’ Clotilde added.

She suddenly rose to her feet and paced round the room, examining the walls, the files, the lined-up boxes. After a few minutes, she asked Sergeant Garcia’s permission to borrow one of the smallest cases, a box containing everything she needed to take fingerprints: a brush and some magnetic aluminium and copper oxide powder.

‘I assure you, Clotilde, those are Orsu’s prints on the harpoon, but if it amuses you …’

‘I want his file as well, Cesareu. Or at the very least a copy of his fingerprints.’

‘Just that?’

‘Just that.’

Garcia got up and slowly went to look for the file stored under the letter R.

‘I keep copies of everything,’ he added. ‘Of course you’re not strictly supposed to, but in Corsica, for an officer who’s spent his whole career here, it’s a kind of life insurance.’

He opened a file and took out a simple black-and-white photograph.

A thumb and three fingers.

‘Your brother’s signature. A hand that would be easily recognised among a thousand others. The hand of an ogre, with more strength in it than the hands of two able-bodied men.’

‘Thank you.’

She stepped towards the door, hesitated for a moment and then turned round.

After all, Sergeant Garcia was the one who had started opening the box of secrets.

‘While we’re at it, how did your daughter manage to get her claws into Natale Angeli?’

The attack was brutal and unexpected, but Sergeant Garcia didn’t flinch. He calmly put the file back on the shelf, then slowly sat down, as if the effort of moving a few metres had been enough for the day. Sweat streamed down his neck.