The man with the tattoo closed the bonnet.

‘I’ve checked what I can, the steering, the wheel alignment, the brakes, they should hold out for a while. But try not to get stopped!’

He held out the keys.

‘Have fun.’

Tattoo winked at polo-neck and the two brothers got back into the truck without asking any more questions. Usually, when they sold old collectors’ items it was to do-it-yourself car mechanics, amateurs hooked on restoration. But clearly this customer wasn’t into mechanics. Tattoo put his foot down as polo-neck watched the man disappear in the rear-view mirror. In the end, the Castani brothers didn’t care what he did with that antique.

~

He waited for the Castani brothers’ truck to disappear behind Cap Cavallo, then looked at the car for a moment, almost in disbelief. In just a few hours on the internet, you could unearth what even the genie of the lamp couldn’t bring you. He walked to the 4x4 parked behind the Corsican pines in the forest. He hadn’t chosen this meeting place by chance: it was isolated, and you could park off the road. He opened the door of the 4x4 and picked up the notebook from the passenger seat, then put it on the front seat of the car he had just bought.

A matter of training.

The hardest part was yet to come.

He opened the boot of the all-terrain vehicle parked under the pines and parted some branches, ignoring the sting of the needles.

‘Shall we change cars?’

She opened her eyes wide, stretched her arms and legs, stiff after spending hours in there. She smelled the scent of pine.

‘Shall we change cars?’ he had said.

Why?

She was bent double, almost paralysed from lying curled up in the boot. He helped her out, helped her walk a few steps. She didn’t understand, walked blindly on. Her eyes blinked in the light, struggling under the glare of the sun.

Gradually they got used to it.

It was then that she saw the car; right in front of her.

A red Fuego. A GTS.

He felt the woman’s legs giving way, and held her up. He had anticipated her surprise.

‘Does that bring back memories, Madame Idrissi?’

56

23 August 2016, 11 a.m.

The old woman wasn’t her mother.

She stared at Clotilde, her face covered with blood that was still flowing; unless those were red-tinted tears that were leaving tracks down her swollen bruises. She wiped them away with her long grey hair, like Mary Magdalene, the sinner.

No, Clotilde thought, delving into her memories, the weeping woman in front of her couldn’t be her mother.

The woman in front of her was older. A generation older.

The woman in front of her was Lisabetta, her grandmother.

One more mystery, one more trap, one more misfortune.