Except that her head was threatening to implode. Who could this lunatic be? It didn’t matter, she had to get to Petra Coda before he did, before they did. And she wouldn’t be able to do this on her own. Without slowing down, she held the wheel with her right hand and, with her left, took out her phone. Her eyes flicked between the snaking road to the number she was trying to dial. Why, in God’s name, hadn’t she dared to save his number, even under a false entry? Why hadn’t she just memorised it?

06

A turning, she turned.

25

Down to second, then speed up again.

96

No one coming, no one down below, three bends lower down, drift to the left, eat up the white line and gain a few seconds.

59

Accelerate again.

13

Hear it ringing.

Answer, damn it, answer!

Brake, lose time, down to first.

‘Shit, shit, shit. Pick up!’

Accelerate again.

Yell a message.

Natale! Natale, listen to me. They’ve taken my daughter. I don’t know who. I don’t know why. They’ve taken Palma too. I just know they’re heading towards Petra Coda. In a red Fuego. To kill them, Natale. To plunge into the Mediterranean. You’re near there, Natale. You’re nearby, you can get there first.

Taking advantage of the last straight before reaching the main road, she hung up and lost concentration for a moment.

She slammed her foot on the brake just in time.

‘Shiiiiit!’

Cassanu was standing right in the middle of the road. The crazy old man had taken a shortcut down the path. He was shaking, bent over, leaning on his cane, like a marathon-runner who has used up all his remaining strength. She made her decision in a flash: it would take her longer to avoid running over this old man in the middle of the road than it would to let him get in.

She leaned over and opened the door.

‘Damn it! Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? Come on, get in!’

*

8.50 p.m.

She had lost thirty seconds. Cassanu climbed in but didn’t say anything. He was getting his breath back, panting, coughing, as if his heart was about to explode. That was all she needed – her grandfather dying in the passenger seat! Papé must have started running as soon as the Passat drove away, he must have sprinted, ignoring Lisabetta’s cries, dashing down the path whose every secret he knew, every stone, every place to skid.

The bends in the road sped by. Gradually, the old Corsican’s breathing returned to normal, unlike the car engine, which seemed to be getting very hot. A smell of burnt toffee spread through the open windows.

The brakes?

It didn’t matter, the car would last another eight kilometres.

‘Clotilde, I don’t think your mother escaped.’

A bit too late to be sorry now, Papé …