A pity that their first meeting should consist of two hours in a scratched and dented Fuego, their mouths gagged so they couldn’t kiss each other on the cheek, their hands tied too tightly to be able to embrace one another.

But his thoughts had wandered off again. He had to get out of this place.

He opened the door of the Fuego.

8.30 p.m.

Perfect, he would be in exactly the right place at the right time.

He glanced once more at Valentine, sitting on the back seat. She was still turning the pages of her mother’s diary, but didn’t seem to be reading them. She could no longer make out the words because of the tears flowing down her face. Would that notebook help her to love her mother at last? Or hate her?

It didn’t matter.

Valentine would never have the opportunity to tell her.

He opened the door.

No one moved.

‘It’s time, Madame Idrissi. We have an appointment on the road at Petra Coda.’

62

23 August 2016, 8.40 p.m.

Clotilde was standing beside the Passat, feeling manic, desperately searching through her handbag for her keys. Everything was jostling in her mind, she didn’t even know in which direction she should head when she turned on the ignition. Towards the police station? The campsite? Follow the road and hope to spot Valentine? Or her mother? She couldn’t put all the pieces of the puzzle together, although she had a vague intuition that the tragedy of the summer of ’89 had been played out as much between the adults as it had between the teenagers – two separate circles – and that her old notebook was the only connection between the two.

Written by a teenager, herself, and containing all that she had observed, recorded and since forgotten.

Read by an adult. Stolen by an adult who had discovered in those pages a truth, her truth. Who had found a key in the muddle of her diary. And she couldn’t even find one in the mess of her handbag! She cursed like an idiot by the closed door of her car, almost in tears. What a fool! Where had she put that stupid keyring?

Her phone vibrated.

At least she knew where to find that.

‘Clotilde? It’s Anika. What terrible news, what a tragedy …’

Anika sniffed then managed to say a few words between her tears.

‘Cervone, murdered this morning. And now your daughter … disappearing …’

Her sobs drowned out her words once more. The ex-windsurfer was breaking down; the boss who had kept the Euproctes campsite going single-handedly, because of her faith in hospitality, was sinking.

‘Are you at the Euproctes, with Franck?’

‘No … I’m on my own, at the gate of the campsite.’

‘Where’s Franck?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Has he gone to get the police?’