Natale? A murderer? Sabotaging the steering of a car to eliminate his rival? To get rid of my father because he loved my mother? That didn’t make sense for a second.

‘And Cassanu never suspected Cervone Spinello?’

‘His best friend’s son? Cervone was less than eighteen at the time. No, Clotilde, not to my knowledge. And in any case, why would the kid have done that?’

‘No reason … no reason …’

She opened the door. She didn’t want to give away any more. She needed to get to Calvi as quickly as possible. She needed to question Orsu. But before that, she needed to check out a hunch, a simple test that would take her only a few seconds.

She was about to step outside when Sergeant Garcia’s loud voice called her back.

‘One last thing, Clotilde. I think it’s better for you to know, if you’re going to go rummaging about in the past. Aurélia has been asking Natale this for years, and she was so insistent that he finally gave her an answer; he swore, absolutely, and I believe him, that nothing happened between him and your mother. Your mother was faithful, your mother just wanted to make your father jealous, but she didn’t love Natale.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘And Natale didn’t love her either.’

Contradictory images flooded into her mind. Old images that raised doubts. The policeman’s voice suddenly sounded almost forceful.

‘Please, Clotilde, another second before you leave. Natale confessed to Aurélia years ago, so I’d rather warn you than see you caught off guard.’

‘Confessed to what?’

‘He confessed to her, because he thought he would never see you again, because years had passed and he thought it was ancient history.’ His face lit up with a regretful smile. ‘He confessed that in 1989 you were the one he loved.’

The sun exploded as soon as Clotilde left the darkened room. It bounced off each wave around the peninsula, like a bank of spotlights dazzling the actors on stage. It took a few seconds for the shapes facing her to become clear.

Aurélia clung to Natale’s arm as if he were some precious object that belonged to her, some exotic treasure that she had brought back from the ends of the earth and jealously preserved. In a flash, Clotilde saw Aurélia twenty-seven years before, on Oscelluccia beach, clinging to her brother’s arm. Exactly the same gesture. Natale, motionless, stared out at the horizon as if the sea around him were nothing but a curse.

At that moment Clotilde was sure that Aurélia knew.

About last night, in the Aryon, with her husband.

Too bad.

Or so much the better.

She no longer knew.