Hermann was gentle and talented. Hermann had had a brilliant future ahead of him, he could have enjoyed an important role in a large company, could have seduced a beautiful woman, lived a life in harmony with his ideals, the life he deserved; identical to the one that Jakob had described to Clotilde Idrissi two days earlier on the phone, when she had called and he had passed himself off as his son. He hadn’t made it all up. He had simply described the life that had been stolen from his son.

Anke had died a few years later, of grief. In August 1993, his wife had insisted that they should holiday in Croatia, on Pag, an island vaguely reminiscent of Corsica, with its cliffs and its villages. One morning, as she went to fetch some bread in their Mercedes, she had come to a bend in the road with a sheer drop underneath. She hadn’t turned the wheel. There was one word on a note in the wallet that she hadn’t taken with her. Entschuldigung. Sorry.

There was an investigation.

The Mercedes had been kept in immaculate condition. The steering worked perfectly.

*

Since then, Jakob had had time to reflect. Hermann and Anke had paid for a crime that they hadn’t committed.

He had had time to weigh up the responsibilities.

Yes, the Schreiber family’s tragedy was a match for that of the Idrissi family.

After 23 August 1989, after the accident, when he had found Hermann sitting helplessly on the steps of their mobile home, Jakob had guessed that his son bore part of the responsibility. They were supposed to have another eight days of holiday, but they decided to return to Germany the following day. That morning, Jakob went to bungalow C29, where the Idrissis had been staying. It was empty. But the notebook belonging to Clotilde, the little survivor, the one she always carried around with her, was on the kitchen table, along with the other things Basile Spinello was supposed to bring to her in the hospital. Jakob had simply taken it. So that he might understand. So that he alone could read it, in case there were any clues, in case there was any kind of evidence against his son concealed among its lines.

He had read and reread that notebook; and once more that summer. There was nothing to indicate that Hermann was the murderer, unless you were the most perceptive reader of detective novels. Clotilde Idrissi certainly wasn’t aware of anything.