‘Forensic tests were done on the Fuego the very next day, and the official verdict was delivered: an accident. Case closed. Bodies delivered to the family. They could bury them and forget, and the authorities could breathe again. If it had been a murder, a settling of scores, there would have been a battle of the clans in the Balagne, no question, the Idrissis against the Pinellis, the Casasporanas, the Poggiolis. The official line – that the car had accidentally left the road, because of tiredness, speed, alcohol, fate – suited everyone. But Aldo Navarri, Calvi’s expert mechanic, is an old friend of mine. My father and his father liberated Corsica together. Even before talking to the police, he told me his conclusions: my son’s car had been sabotaged, the bolt on the steering mechanism had been unscrewed. For Aldo it wasn’t a theory, it was a certainty. The tie rod was intact, it hadn’t been twisted, proof that it had failed before the car came off the road, all of a sudden, and not after the impact. I asked him to keep his views quiet, to tell the police what everyone wanted to hear, that nothing untoward had taken place. Aldo had no qualms about giving the police a false report, he was called on as an expert witness less than three times a year, and he agreed with me that some family stories were none of their business.’

Cassanu looked out across the villages that clung to the Balagne. Montemaggiore. Moncale. Calenzana.

‘It took Cesareu Garcia a few months to reach the same conclusion I had. He asked one of his friends to carry out alternative forensic tests … Too late, far too late.’

Clotilde stared at him, horrified, hoping that she hadn’t guessed what her grandfather was about to tell her.

‘You employed your own police? You carried out your own form of justice?’

‘My own form of justice? What other kind of justice would you expect? The one conjured up by bureaucrats from the mainland? Juries chosen by a lottery who aren’t even involved, and who are constantly being reminded of the presumption of innocence? In the face of the evidence? Acquittal because of a lack of proof? You’re a lawyer, my darling, you know what we’re talking about. I’ve taken part in that Punch and Judy show enough times to know. No, Clotilde, I’ve never had any faith in that form of justice. I’ve never trusted that version of the law, not that one, nor the laws of urban planning, nor the laws of commerce, least of all the penal law.’

Clotilde staggered slightly. The almost perfect curve of the gulf of Calvi was laid out in front of her.

‘So you delivered justice yourself?’

‘Your mother had the right to a trial. As equitable as if it had been organised by the French justice system.’