‘Madame Baron?’ he said with the over-attentive politeness of a shopkeeper greeting the first customer of the day.

The beautiful lawyer didn’t seem to be in the mood for pleasantries, however. The policeman folded his newspaper, set down his Cola, and seemed to feel obliged to justify his idleness.

‘Have you come about Orsu Romani? He’s in the next room. He has company. The DPP in Ajaccio sent over two inspectors this morning, they’re taking charge of the case. Clearly Cervone Spinello had some influence, and his murder has caused a stir. So the local brigade here is left twiddling our thumbs – although we’re also on fire duty, since people seem to think the whole place is about to go up in flames.’

The policeman appeared to think his duty was done, and that he could unfold his newspaper again, but Clotilde had already stepped forward and put her hand on the door handle of the room in which Orsu was being questioned. Cadenat suddenly panicked.

‘Madame Baron, no …’

He cursed and crumpled his newspaper into a ball, knocking over his Corsica Cola.

‘You can’t go in there! The big bosses are grilling him!’

Clotilde stared straight into his eyes.

‘I am his lawyer.’

That didn’t seem to impress the rugby player.

‘Oh? Since when?’

‘Since right now! And by the way, my client hasn’t been fully briefed.’

Cadenat hesitated. Clotilde Baron wasn’t bluffing, he had known about her profession since she gave her statement ten days before. And after all, the idea that, by bursting into the interrogation room, this lawyer might mess up the plans of the bigwigs from Ajaccio didn’t bother him at all.

‘Sort things out with them,’ he said at last. ‘And if the special units of Southern Corsica don’t throw you out, well, good luck … Your client isn’t the chattiest witness we’ve ever had on the island. You might even say that he takes the notion of omertà to a level that’s almost sublime: according to our preliminary investigation, he’s never uttered more than three words in a row since he was born.’

Clotilde stepped into the room. Orsu was facing her. The two policemen, wearing grey suits and ties, had their backs to her. They turned round in unison, like poker-players in a saloon when the door swings open. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d knocked over the table to use it as a shield while drawing their revolvers.

Fast … But not fast enough!

Clotilde was the first to draw.

‘Maître Idrissi.’

She held her card up under their noses, a card that gave her name as Maître Clotilde Baron, but they didn’t read it; the title – informing them she was a lawyer – and the name had the desired effect.

The older of the two, who wore a pair of thin rectangular glasses, was the first to compose himself.