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Back Time Is a Killer
Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Time is a Killer
  3. Contents
  4. Map
  5. 1
  6. Twenty-seven years later …
  7. IRevellata
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. IISaint Rose’s Day
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. IIISempre giovanu
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. Twenty-seven years later
  77. Acknowledgements
  78. AFTER THE CRASH
  79. BLACK WATER LILIES
  80. DON’T LET GO
  81. About the Author
  82. Also by Michel Bussi
  83. More on W&N
  84. Copyright

Of course – her mother had hidden somewhere on the mountain so that she could see her, she was still hiding there; from any point on the mountain, in the maquis, with the broom and heather up to your waist, you could see without being seen, you could hear without being heard, you could spy without being detected. Stupidly, Clotilde had imagined that once she was in the area, in broad daylight, she would remember; she would recognise the shadows of the night, she would find the landmarks, the shape of a rock, the curve of a tree trunk, the thorns of a wild rose. Impossible. Impossible to find your bearings in this maze of chestnut trees and oaks surrounded by broom, arbutus and heather. Maquis as far as the eye could see, the scent making her head spin.

She was about to give up, to go back down, head back to Calvi, barely five minutes with her foot to the floor, and persuade the men from Ajaccio to grant her a second interview, to make them agree to let Orsu leave the station with her, and guide her as he had the other night. Even if it was the most ludicrous of ideas. Her half-brother was in custody for murder. It would take weeks before she could obtain a letter from the examining magistrate, allowing her to stage a reconstruction.

She was about to give up when she saw it.

A stain, a purple stain lost among the arbutus berries.

A drop of blood.

And then another, a metre further off, this time on dry earth. A third, on the trunk of a cedar tree. As if Hop o’my Thumb, having run out of breadcrumbs or white pebbles, had opened his veins.

To show her the way?

Instinctively, she followed the bloody path. Once more, she felt stupid. It could have been left by any wounded animal, a fox, a boar, a deer. She ran her finger over the scarlet traces. The blood was still fresh.

What other possibilities could she come up with? That a stranger, a few minutes ahead of her, had tried to reach the shepherd’s cabin? A stranger who was losing blood and wanted to get there before she did? It didn’t make any sense. As she followed the trail through the maquis, she got the impression that the heather seemed to have been parted, that some branches were broken.