Was it mere chance, or had Papé always been an exceptionally good diver? His leap described the perfect trajectory, a straight line, deftly avoiding the granite spikes so that he disappeared into the eddying water at the precise spot where the Fuego had plunged.

Nothing.

Clotilde saw nothing for endless moments. Cassanu hadn’t survived his fall, he had sacrificed himself, he hadn’t jumped in to save them, he had committed suicide to avoid facing his guilt.

Sirens wailed behind her. Doors slammed. Rushing footsteps, making the tarmacked road surface vibrate. Clotilde turned her head reluctantly for a moment, just a moment, before turning back to the water again.

All that mattered was the surface of that turquoise pool.

Pray pray pray.

Pray to see a body, a head, a hand splitting the surface.

Behind her, the new arrivals were moving about. Clotilde had had time to recognise, among the four or five uniformed officers, Captain Cadenat, Sergeant Cesareu Garcia, his daughter Aurélia, and Franck.

Franck had done what needed to be done. He had alerted the police, and they had come quickly; but what did the swiftness of their reaction matter now? One minute too late might as well have been an eternity.

Franck took her hand. Clotilde didn’t resist.

An eternity.

The Mediterranean never gave anything back, never.

Clotilde’s heart exploded.

‘There!’

Papé’s head and shoulders had just emerged; he was holding a body in his arms. Clotilde could see how desperately he was trying to lift it from the water. At last its head, its neck, its shoulders appeared.

Valou!

Alive.

Her daughter’s long brown hair floated like tentacles around her face. Franck gripped Clotilde’s hand even tighter. Valou didn’t cough, she didn’t spit salt water from her lungs, her mouth was covered with a bandage.

‘Shit!’ her husband shouted. ‘She’s bound and gagged, she won’t be able to make it!’

The rocks at the bottom of the inlet were too sheer, almost vertical and smooth-sided. There was no chance of Cassanu, let alone Valou, being able to hold on to them.

Cassanu had already dived again. Valou was floating as best she should, opening crazed eyes, probably using her legs – Clotilde didn’t know if they were tied or not – trying to keep herself on the surface.

‘She won’t make it,’ Franck said again. ‘Throw her a rope, damn it, a lifebelt, anything!’

The policemen looked at each other, perplexed. They had leapt into their vans as soon as Franck had called them, but had prepared for a kidnap situation, not a sea rescue. They could never have imagined … They were waiting for the fire service, who were on the way.