While the half-built walls of the future Roc e Mare marina were barely visible from that point, you couldn’t miss the Tropi-Kalliste, the straw hut facing due north, with a terrace, bar and bamboo ceiling, all of it no doubt easy to dismantle at speed if there was a storm warning or an impending visit from a zealous new police chief. The name, which had Cervone’s hallmark stamped all over it, evoked both the tropical heat of the night, and the ancient name of Corsica, Kalliste, the most beautiful. The disco was nothing more than this straw hut, fitted with spotlights and lasers that lit up the sky all the way to the moon, large speakers placed right on the sand, a floating platform on which less than a quarter of the crowd was dancing, and – especially for this evening – a raised stage, two metres high, thin and long like a catwalk or a large diving board. Below the dais a big inflatable swimming pool had been set up, lit by blue fluorescent lighting and guarded by three motionless black bodyguards who didn’t appear to be appreciating the chorus to Opus’s song ‘Life is Life’.

For once Cervone had brought his prices down, but even at seven euros a ticket, nine euros for a mojito and fifteen euros for a pitcher of Pietra, he still must have been raking in the money.

Frankie Goes to Hollywood was now ordering the enthusiastic audience to relax. Clotilde estimated the crowd to be between two and three hundred people. Of all ages. Teenagers who seemed to have known these cheesy songs by heart since they were in nappies; hysterical adolescents, some of whom already seemed to be drunk; couples, too, and a few groups of older people.

Old in comparison to most of the audience.

Old in terms of their age.

‘I’m off, Maman!’

Clotilde stared at her daughter uncomprehendingly.

‘Clara, Justin, Nils and Tahir are here. Just over there. I’ve got my phone. Text me when you want to go.’

Valou disappeared into the crowd.

If anything happened to her, if he found out about this, Franck would kill her. Not his daughter – his wife.

But Clotilde didn’t care.

Let Valou enjoy herself. My God, let the girl enjoy herself! What could happen to her here?

She moved away slightly from the dancers and walked towards the sea, avoiding a few bodies lying around as if they’d been washed in by the tide. A boat floated a few metres out from the beach, moored to an iron ring that had been drilled into the rocks. Clotilde pointed the torch of her phone at the flaking bow of the fishing boat.

The Aryon.