Apocalypse Baby (2 page)

That particular morning, yesterday, I was a few steps behind her, in the corridor of the metro. It wasn't difficult to pass unnoticed in the crowd of commuters, because the kid hardly ever took her eyes off her iPod. As I made for the exit, an older woman, heavily-built, suddenly collapsed in front of me. And my reflex was to stretch out my arms as she fell backwards. Then, instead of just lowering her to the ground and hurrying on, so as not to lose my quarry, I stayed with her for a minute until some other people arrived. I'd been trailing Valentine for most of two weeks. I was sure I'd find her in the café next to this crammer she attended, stuffing her face with muffins and Coca-Cola, like she did every morning, with some of the other kids from the school, but sitting a little back from them, calmly keeping her distance. Except
that
day, Valentine disappeared. It's always possible something has happened to her. Obviously, I wondered whether she'd spotted me and taken advantage of the accident to lose me. But I'd never felt she was suspicious. Still, after long experience of trailing after teenagers, I'm beginning to understand what makes them tick.

Jacqueline Galtan looks down at the photos on the desk. Valentine giving a boy a blowjob, on a park bench, hidden from passers-by by a waist-high shrub. Valentine snorting a line from her exercise book at 8 a.m. Valentine, having done a bunk, jumping on the back of a scooter ridden by a perfect
stranger she'd stopped at a traffic light, late at night… I didn't have a colleague working with me on this job. So because of budgetary constraints, I'd been teamed up with a notorious crack addict, who'd work for any rate at all, as long as he was paid in cash every night. I suppose his dealer had let him down, but anyway he'd never turned up to relieve me, and his voicemail was full, I couldn't reach him. Nobody thought it was a matter of urgency to replace him. You had to be under the kid's window, in case she did a runner, and at the school gates next morning as well. In fact, it was lucky I was actually there when she disappeared. Most of the time, I had no idea what she was up to.

At the beginning of the assignment, I'd used classic tactics: I'd got another kid who helps us out sometimes to offer her an irresistible smartphone for a very good price, so-called ‘fallen off a lorry'. Mostly when we're dealing with teenagers, we just tell their parents how to fix their child's mobile. But Valentine didn't have a mobile, and she didn't deign to switch on the one I'd sent her way. That didn't help. I don't often have to track a teenager without a good GPS installed.

The ancestor lines up the photos, looking thoughtful, then swivels her gaze on to me. ‘And you wrote these reports, did you?' she says quite affably, as if we'd had plenty of time to digest her tirade. I stammer out a few words, she isn't listening. ‘And you took the photos too? Well, you did a good job before you screwed up.' Blowing hot and cold, the way of all manipulative people: first the insult then the compliment, and
I'll
be the judge of the tone of our exchanges, thank you very much. It works too; her recriminations were so unpleasant that the compliment is like a shot of morphine on
an open wound. If I dared, I'd roll over and let her scratch my stomach. She lights a cigarette. Deucené hasn't the courage to tell her it isn't allowed, and his eyes dart around looking for something to offer her as an ashtray.

‘I assume you will take
personal
charge of finding her.'

Yippee, brilliant: she's just using me as a punchball. I wait for Deucené to tell me the name of the agent who will take over the case. I've never done missing persons, no experience. But he turns to me.

‘You're already familiar with the file.'

The client approves, she's smiling again now. The boss gives me a conspiratorial wink. He looks relieved, pathetic jerk.

An insect crawls along the top pane of the window in the broom cupboard I have to use as an office. It has huge antennae.

I take out my card index. I don't store much on my computer. If I'm shot dead tomorrow and they come and search through my things, and find my notes, they'll probably think I've invented a system of coded language that would make Enigma look like child's play. The truth is that when I try to read it over myself, I wonder what I meant to say. Luckily, I've got a good memory, and I usually end up remembering what I intended to note down, more or less. I have this set of index cards covered with weird signs, sometimes mathematical (as if I know anything about algebra).

Since I've been working here, I've got really fed up at being assigned these teenagers. A kid can't smoke a joint in peace
without me personally being right up behind him. The first year, I never had to follow anyone under fifteen. Nowadays, it doesn't surprise me to be asked to work in the primary-school sector. The life of their children belongs to adults of my generation, who don't want to let their youth get away from them twice. I can't exactly say I hate what I'm doing, but fixing little kids' mobiles is neither glorious nor exciting. I ought to be feeling pleased at getting a bit of variety in my work, except that I haven't the faintest idea what I should do. Deucené dismissed me from his office without asking me if I needed any help.

I try typing in Valentine Galtan's name on the internet. And draw a blank. No surprises there. She's the first kid I've been tailing that I've never seen send a text message. And yet even youngsters high on crack take the time to post a video of themselves looking totally spaced out on YouTube.

Her father, François Galtan, is a novelist. I met him briefly, the day the grandmother came to hire us. He didn't say a word throughout the conversation. His Wikipedia page is typical of those insecure people who write their own entry – any sense of decency's gone out of the window. Who he sat next to at school,
where
he went to school, what books influenced him, what the weather was like the day he wrote his first poem, his super-important lectures in improbable seminars, and so on. On the photos accompanying the press reports devoted to him, you can see he's very proud of not going bald, his hair's combed back in a great wavy mane. I suppose the first thing I should do is contact him.

Valentine's mother abandoned the child soon after her birth. The family claims to have no idea where she could be
today. I'll have to find her, of course. The scale of the task overwhelms me. I consider resigning. But it would be better if they sacked me for incompetence, if I want to claim unemployment benefit. I've reached the stage of wondering whether I should look again at the TV shows about private investigators that used to make us laugh so much, to get some inspiration, when Jean-Marc knocks at my door – I know it's him without seeing him, he bends two fingers and taps the panel gently, his way of flexing his wrist is elegant, sexy. He puts his head round the door to see if I'm alone, then goes over to the window looking on to the street. I make some coffee. He hums ‘J'aime tes genoux', a Henry Salvador song, beating time with his shoulders and hips, not bothering to take his hands out of his pockets. He's tall, thin, but strong-looking, with a powerful frame and a way of standing up straight, occupying a lot of space. His features are irregular, he has deepset eyes, a rather thick nose and a bulging brow. The kind of craggy face girls often like, but the ones it really turns on are his male colleagues. They think he's a god. Jean-Marc is the only one on the team who dresses well. The rest of us look like sales reps from the provinces. We're not doing a job where it pays to look conspicuous. He always wears a black tie and an impeccably white shirt, and tells anyone who'll listen that by not wearing ties, men have lost their virility. Stop wearing a suit, according to him, and you stop representing the law. He rarely visits me, unless he needs to contact some kid who might be useful to him. I have a helpful network of youngsters willing to run errands on the cheap. Today he's come to see me because I've been given this difficult case. Agathe must have filled him in. From her desk, she can hear
and follow everything that goes on in the boss's office. The Reldanch agency premises are a former blood testing lab, and the walls haven't been soundproofed. I'd like it if Jean-Marc were to suggest working together with me on this enquiry. But he thinks I can handle it on my own.

‘Where are you going to start?'

‘That's just what I'm wondering. This kid is half-crazy. I've no idea what's happened to her. And the grandmother is so scary that I can't lean on her about it. Honestly, I don't know. Her biological mother, I suppose.'

He looks at me without saying anything. I think he is waiting for me to outline my plan of attack.

I ask, ‘
You
've done missing persons, haven't you? Aren't you sometimes afraid you'll find something grim?' I'm trying to sound casual, but just pronouncing these words opens up a hollow in my chest. I hadn't realized how scared I was.

‘Well, five thousand euros reward, what can I say? I don't ask myself if I'm afraid of what I'll find, I ask myself how I'm going to track down this kid. If you can't see how to handle it yourself, just delegate. Everyone else does. You can share the bonus. Do you need some contacts?'

‘I thought about that. I'm going to put a proposal to the Hyena. She knows the ropes.'

It's the first name that comes into my head that might impress him. I let it drop in the tone of voice of a girl who calls up the Hyena every time she loses her house keys. It's true that I know this guy who knows her, but actually, I've never set eyes on her.

Jean-Marc utters a slightly choked laugh. He doesn't look anxious and concerned any more, he looks distant. The
Hyena has a reputation. Declaring I could work with her is tantamount to saying I have clandestine activities. I'm already regretting the lie, but I go ahead with my yarn.

‘I often meet people in this bar where she hangs out. The barman's a pal of mine, and he's a big friend of hers.'

‘So one way and another, you've got to know her.'

I don't answer. Jean-Marc blows on his coffee then says, thoughtfully, ‘You know, Lucie, it's just a matter of luck and perseverance. It may look impossible at first, but somehow or other a lead opens up, and then it's just a matter of sweating it out.'

I agree, as if I could see what he means.

Jean-Marc has long been the star of our outfit, not just because he composes his reports in such a dazzling style that even when he fails on a case, by the time you reach the end you would think he had succeeded. He was the right-hand man of our old boss, and everyone thought he'd be the official number two, and go off to direct a big branch. Then Deucené was appointed director, and Jean-Marc made him ill at ease. Too tall, probably.

Jean-Marc closes the door quietly behind him. I look for the index card for Cro-Mag. I'll call him from a cabin when I go down to lunch in a while. I don't trust the phone lines in the office, they're all tapped, although I can't think who'd have the time to listen to our conversations. It's a professional reflex, I only use my mobile to text birthday greetings and I avoid sending emails altogether. I know what they can cost you if there's an enquiry or a lawsuit. And I know they can be hacked by anyone who's nosy. I still often send letters by snail mail. To guess the contents of an envelope is a skill
most agents don't have nowadays. I've never had anything important to conceal, but in this job you develop a degree of paranoia.

Cro-Mag doesn't burst out laughing when I tell him I want to contact the Hyena. I'm grateful to him for that. He tells me to call back later. I head for Valentine's school, to have a coffee in the bar where the kids go every lunchtime. This little private school doesn't have a canteen or a playground, it wasn't designed for the children's needs. I don't try to talk to them, I just eavesdrop on their conversations. Nobody mentions Valentine. They don't know she's missing, which means the police haven't been called in yet. Though I'd have been willing to bet that the Galtans are well-connected enough to get the police to give this case more priority than they would for some ordinary missing person. The kids go back in to class. They're empty-headed, noisy and over-excited. Interchangeable profiles. I'm not interested in them. It's mutual, I haven't registered on their field of vision. That's my strength: I'm dispensable. I stay there most of the afternoon, reading every word of a newspaper a customer has left on a table, and ordering more coffees. Guilt at hanging about instead of starting the enquiry nags at me a bit, but not enough to prevent my enjoying the afternoon off.

On the pavement outside the bar where Cro-Mag works, a group of Goths are smoking, and laughing a lot, which seems contrary to their philosophy to me, but then I'm no specialist. None of them takes any notice as I push through the throng to go in.

Cro-Mag welcomes me warmly. Given his lifestyle – alcohol, hard drugs, up all night, surviving on kebabs and fags – he's looking good. He still has the kind of loopy energy most people lose after thirty, and in him it doesn't look forced. His ear lobes are deformed by the huge earrings he wears, his teeth are nicotine orange but at least he's got them all, that's something. He leans across the counter to whisper that she'll be along soon. From a distance, it must look as if I've come in looking for drugs and he's telling me where to find a dealer. Scratching his chin, and tipping back his head in a virile but unattractive movement, he adds, ‘These days, she's sniffing around this girl who comes in often. It wasn't hard to get her to drop by.'

I order a beer at the counter, I'd have preferred a hot chocolate because it's cold outside, but I've got a date with the Hyena and I don't want her to think I'm a wimp. I don't often touch alcohol in bars, it gives me a headache and I don't like losing control. You never know what you might be capable of once you lose your inhibitions.