‘I told you, we were under incredible pressure, Clotilde. The son, the grandson, the daughter-in-law of Cassanu Idrissi, I don’t know if you have any idea of what it was like. The case had gone all the way up to Deputy Pasquini and President Rocca Serra. So they just passed the whole business on to some poor guy who was given the task of botching the investigation. Me. Sergeant Garcia. An investigation whose solution had already been determined. AN ACCIDENT.’

Clotilde tried to clear her mind of the images of the Fuego crashing through the barrier, plunging into the void, bouncing three times, killing three times.

It was an accident, of course it was. What was this fat policeman trying to say?

‘Look at the third photograph, Clotilde. That’s the rack-and-pinion steering system. And at either end you’ve got the tie rods and the ball joints.’

All she could see was an iron rod, a piece of conical metal and a big bolt.

‘It was one of these ball joints that went. All of a sudden. Just as your father tried to turn, just before the Petra Coda ravine.’

Her father hadn’t turned.

She saw the Fuego flying off the road like a football. It wasn’t suicide. The steering had failed. Her voice softened.

‘So it really was an accident?’

‘Yes, as I told you, that’s what the official report said, just before the word END. A steering joint failed. The only guilty party is the car. Except that according to my friend Ibrahim …’

Thick droplets pearled on his belly.

‘According to my mate,’ he said again, ‘the failure of the ball joint was not, how can I put this … it didn’t seem normal.’

‘Normal?’

He leaned towards her, his belly resting on his knees like an apron.

‘Let me be more precise, Clotilde. I’ve thought about it hundreds of times since then, I’ve talked to Ibrahim, I’ve examined the photographs and the evidence. And in the end I’ve reached my own conclusion.’

‘Just tell me, for goodness’ sake!’

‘The steering was sabotaged, Clotilde. A bolt on the ball joint was unscrewed, just enough so that the vibrations would knock it out after a few bends, the rod would give all of a sudden and the driver would find himself with a steering wheel turning in the void and an uncontrollable vehicle.’

Clotilde said nothing. She clasped her arms around her knees, in a huddle. Prostrate.

The shadow of the pachyderm fell across Clotilde, stealing the sun. He had got to his feet.

‘I had to tell you, Clotilde.’

She felt cold. She was shivering. She was drawn by the well. As long as it was bottomless. Then she could fall for all eternity.

‘Thank you, Cesareu.’

A long silence passed before she said another word.

‘Who … who else knows about this?’