I didn’t tell her that the Cyrillic alphabet was to me an irresistible code to unlock Russian words. But she must have spotted something that made her think I had the makings of a private investigator because she took me on and sent me on a two-week course in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Running around learning about foot surveillance techniques or handling different cameras for photographic surveillance set me up with the skills for the job, it seems. And I was good at it. When I told André about it, I was all puffed up with pride and he’d laughed and cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

Now Clarisse slipped a finely buffed nail under the flap of the envelope I’d presented her with and slid the contents on to her desk in front of her. A clutch of photographs. Five of them, glossy black-and-white, eight by ten. Plus – more importantly – the strip of film negative that I had ‘liberated’. Her face pulled a moue of distaste and, after briefly studying the pictures, she tucked them back out of sight in their envelope. Her face was expressive, always mobile and interested, with strong features and eyes that could lead you to believe you knew what she was thinking. But you would be wrong. No one knew what Clarisse was thinking. Sometimes I caught her looking at me. I had no idea why.

She held the strip of negative film up to the light and squinted at it. ‘Where did you get this piece of filth?’

‘In the bastard’s office.’

She nodded approval. No questions about how I got in.

The bastard was the photographer. A nasty creep who made a habit of taking compromising snaps of the sixteen-year-old daughters of wealthy public figures, daughters who had gone off the rails and were running head-first down black holes. This was the 1950s. Every one of us believed that the bad times were behind us. We were all desperate for the good times to come rolling in, but drugs and drink and the nuclear threat of instant extinction kept black-eyed sharks circling. The country was on edge and Clarisse’s services were much in demand.

We worked for an hour discussing two new clients who had brought her their problems to solve – one a blackmail case, the other a suspected fraud – and I was taking down details in my notebook when I became aware of her silence. I glanced up. Clarisse was sitting very still, studying me. For no obvious reason I felt a twitch of fear.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

She leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘Tell me, Eloïse, have you heard anything?’

Her tone was soft, so soft it scared me. We both knew what anything meant.

‘No.’

‘No news of your brother?’

‘No.’