‘No one could have jumped out before the Fuego plunged off the cliff?’

Clotilde saw before her eyes the images that had been vividly engraved there since the tragedy. The Fuego hurtling like a bomb in a straight line. The tight bend. Her father not turning the wheel.

‘No, no one could have, it was impossible.’

Franck ploughed on. That was his strength. He believed in two main things: rationality and effectiveness.

‘Clo, are you absolutely sure that your father, your mother and your brother died in that accident? All three of them?’

For once, in her head, Clotilde thanked him for his lack of tact.

Yes, she was absolutely sure.

The mangled corpses in the carcase of the Fuego had haunted her for over thirty years. Her parents’ bodies, crushed between the steel jaws, the taste of blood mixed with the smell of petrol, the emergency services turning up at the site of the accident and identifying the three corpses, transporting them to the morgue and placing them in drawers so that the devastated family could pay one last visit. The inquiry. The funeral … Time making everything decay, nothing ever comes back to life, nothing ever flowers again, ever …

‘Yes, all three of them died, there’s no doubt.’

Franck rested a second hand on a second knee and leaned towards her.

‘OK, Clo. Then the case is closed. Some joker is playing a sordid trick on you, an old boyfriend or a jealous Corsican, it doesn’t matter, but don’t let it make you believe anything else.’

‘What do you mean, anything else?’

Clotilde felt hypocritical, frail, fake, to the point that she was lying to herself.

Sometimes Franck’s candour simplified things.

‘Don’t let it make you think that your mother might still be alive. And that she’s the one who has written to you.’

Bang!

Clotilde’s milky skin, gleaming with sun cream, was flushed.

Of course, Franck.

Of course.

What was she thinking?

‘Of course, Franck,’ she heard herself agreeing. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’

Fake! Hypocrite! Liar!

Franck didn’t press the point. He had won, the voice of reason had spoken, and there was nothing else to add.

‘So forget it, Clo. You were the one who wanted to come back to Corsica. I followed you. So now, let’s forget it all and enjoy the holiday.’

Yes, Franck.

Of course, Franck.

You’re right, Franck.

Thank you, Franck.

Franck suggested a drive to Calvi. The town was less than five kilometres away, less than ten minutes’ drive if you didn’t find yourself stuck behind a herd of donkeys or camper-vans.