That her daughter was inside.

The Fuego fell. A vertiginous plunge down to where, twenty metres below, the sea smashed against the rocks.

It was over.

65

23 August 2016, 9.02 p.m.

The Passat reached Petra Coda less than ten seconds later. Clotilde put her foot down hard on the brake. The car swerved and slid a few metres along the road, stopping in the middle, and preventing any other car from getting by.

Clotilde left it there, without even bothering to turn on the hazard lights, turn off the engine or put on the handbrake. She tore open the door and rushed over to the wooden barricade shattered a few moments earlier by the Fuego.

The red car was floating on the water, twenty metres below, bobbing on the waves like a cork among the reefs. It was impossible to tell what state the bodywork was in, but Clotilde imagined that it must have bounced against the rocks, twice, ten times; in spite of its speed, there was little chance that it had plunged straight into the deep, narrow inlet. Second by second, it began to sink.

Two thirds of the Fuego was already covered by the sea.

Another few seconds and it would sink once and for all into the turquoise water. She surprised herself by hoping that Valentine and her mother had been killed outright, on impact, that they would be spared the slow agony of drowning.

Her eyes smarted as she stared at the metal carcase barely protruding above the water.

My God.

Only the rear window was still above the waterline now, washed by the waves. Clotilde thought she could make out two silhouettes, two frantically moving shadows.

Was it an illusion?

She would never know. A moment later there was nothing above the surface but a joyful foam taking possession of its playground, enjoying itself once more by throwing a thousand fleeting bubbles at the bare rocks.

‘Get out of the way!’

Clotilde didn’t even think. She got out of the way.

Cassanu went right up to the edge, then he dived.

In a flash, Clotilde remembered a conversation she had had with her Papé a long time ago: ‘All the young Corsicans used to dive into the sea there … your grandfather was the most daring of them all.’ She bit her lip hard.

Could a body, after all these years, preserve the memory of that perfect balance you had to attain in order to dive twenty metres without it shattering against the surface of the water? Maintain that ability to concentrate that was indispensable if you wanted to control your fall; aim for exactly the right point, reach the sea without crashing into the jaws of the cliff which parted only for a few metres? Remain sufficiently clear-sighted, to the very last moment, in order to judge the depth of the basin and avoid the submerged red icebergs planted like stakes in a moat?

Yes.

Yes, Cassanu’s body had not forgotten a thing.