Apocalypse Baby. Виржини Депант

was missing persons. Since then, the stories told about her have evolved into various, contradictory versions, some of them pure fiction. Everyone has their own tale to tell, lawyers, informers, special branch officers, the cops, other PIs, journalists, hairdressers, hotel staff, and prostitutes . . . anyone who’s involved in our little world has their own story about what she’s up to, where, how, and who with. She provides drugs for government ministries, with cover from the secret service, she recruits call girls for officials, she has ultrasecret information about ex-French Africa, she speaks Russian fluently and gets on fine with Putin, she’s on a mission to rescue hostages in Turkestan, she’s trafficking on behalf of South American countries, she’s spying on the Scientologists, she’s involved with synthetic medicines imported from Asia, the big agro-industrial firms have hired her to defend their interests, nuclear power holds no secrets for her, she’s protected by radical Islamists, she’s got a house in Switzerland, she often travels to Israel . . . But the stories all agree on one point: she’s never been sentenced in any court, because her files are too explosive for her not to be covered in any circumstances. And it’s a fact that over the past five years, when lawsuits and trials have mushroomed, no legal practice has boasted of having her as a client. She hasn’t worked for any outfit exclusively for a long time now, but her name crops up—occasioning scorn, admiration, anger, or amusement—whenever people are looking for something vaguely sensational to talk about.

      I watch the door out of the corner of my eye, with growing nervousness. I repeat over and over the sentences of introduction that I’ve prepared. I keep reassuring myself that she couldn’t have done a tenth of the things people say, and that in times of economic crisis, five thousand euros cash bonus is a sum worth discussing. At regular intervals, Cro-Mag asks me if I want anything else, I refuse, and he shuts his eyes and nods several times, a mysterious smile floating across his face, all meaning, I presume, that she’ll be along soon, you have to be patient, she’s no doubt on some top-level mission. The bar has filled up, a hoarse-voiced male singer is croaking something out of the speakers, I’ll never understand the appeal of that kind of music, you’d think you were on a construction site. Suddenly Cro-Mag’s face lights up, and the Hyena is right beside me. Very tall, hollow cheeks, Ray-Bans, men’s style, a figure-hugging white leather jacket, she must think she’s a film star. Cro-Mag points toward me, and she holds out her hand.

      “Lucie? You wanted to see me?” She doesn’t take the glasses off, doesn’t smile, and doesn’t give me time to say anything. “Five minutes if you don’t mind? I’ve got to say hello to some friends, then I’ll be back.”

      Seen close up, she doesn’t look at all like the mythical person I’ve heard so much about. I wait, while conscientiously sipping my half-glass of beer, clench my teeth, and tell myself that even if this is a ridiculous attempt, it won’t kill me to have made the effort.

      “Shall we sit down over there? It’ll be quieter to talk.”

      She goes ahead of me, confident and casual, her legs are long and slender in her tight-fitting white jeans, she’s fashionably slim, a body that tends to vanish and carries clothes well. I feel like I’m short and fat, my sweater is damp with nervous sweat, I realize my hands are shaking, and I suppose I’m lucky not to fall on my face as we go over there. She sits down facing me, arms draped over the back of her chair, legs apart, as if she’s trying to take up the maximum space with the minimum body mass. I collect my wits and wonder how to begin. She takes her shades off at last, and gives me a long cool look up and down. She has very big dark eyes and an expressive face, lined like an old Indian woman’s.

      “I work for the Reldanch Agency.”

      “Yeah, Cro-Mag told me.”

      “I’ve sort of specialized in checking up on minors.”

      “Onto a good thing there, I gather.”

      “Yes, it’s one of our best lines. I’ve been tailing this girl, she’s fifteen, and I lost her, in the metro, the morning before yesterday on her way to school. She didn’t come home, she hasn’t been in touch. Her grandmother’s offered five thousand euros if we can get her back in two weeks. And . . .”

      “Five thousand euros, alive or dead?”

      I suppose that’s the kind of question I ought to have thought of asking.

      “I hope we’ll find her alive.”

      “What do you think, runaway or kidnap?”

      “No idea.”

      “What kind of girl?”

      “Difficult, sex-mad, off the rails.”

      “What’s the family like?”

      “The father’s a writer, with a private income, from the family pharmaceutical company somewhere near Lyon. He brought the kid up on his own, with the grandmother being around a lot. The mother took off when Valentine was two years old, doesn’t see her, and nobody seems to know at the moment where she is.”

      I open my backpack and bring out a photo of the kid. The Hyena hesitates to take it.

      “I don’t really see how I can help you . . .” She glances down at the picture, and seems to think for a while as she observes it. She hesitates. I feel reassured.

      “And how much will you give me if I work with you?”

      “The five thousand euros bonus. It’ll be in cash. And if there’s no result . . . we’ll have to work out how to divide up my pay.”

      “At that kind of rate, I wouldn’t want to put myself out too much.”

      She smiles as she puts the glasses back on. I can’t tell if I amuse her or annoy her.

      She has started calling me “tu” now. “So you let me keep the money, young Lucie, but are you going to work on it too, or do sweet fuck all?”

      “I . . . I’d prefer to have someone working with me, in the sense that . . .”

      “That you have absolutely no idea where to start. Well, at least that’s clear. Did you bring the file from when you tailed her?”

      “It’s all on my laptop.”

      I bend down to take it out, but she stops me with a snap of her fingers. “Can you put it on a USB?”

      The Hyena has put Valentine’s photo in the middle of the table facing her. “Teenagers aren’t really my thing. They usually have good reasons to clear off, don’t they?”

      “She might have been kidnapped.”

      She puts her head to one side and seems lost in contemplation of the photo. She has beautiful hands, pale with long fingers, I notice that the nails are bitten down to the quick. She wears an enormous ring with a skull on it, a bit pathetic in my view, who does she think she is, the Keith Richards of the shit-stirrers? She concentrates for a moment on the portrait of Valentine, who is smiling into the camera, three-quarter angle, bright eyes, pretty dimples, glossy hair. Slightly plump. Like all girls her age, in family photos they just look like nice kids. Then the Hyena fixes her eyes on me pensively, there’s something disquieting about the insistence of her gaze.

      “Little girls with puppy fat are trying to cover up for their father’s lies.”

      Brilliant. I thought I was working with James Bond, and now I’m dealing with a family therapist. I don’t know how to answer in a way that doesn’t seem disagreeable, so I opt for being pragmatic.

      “Teenagers go in for a lot of sugary drinks.”

      “And why did the family take the step of having her watched?”

      “I think they thought Valentine was . . . putting herself in danger.”

      “What kind of danger?”

      “You’d need to look at the other photos in the file, she . . .”

      “Later. So what do they think they’re going to do, to protect her?”

      “I