Pianelli stared at me, half incredulous, half concerned.

“Fuck…how do you know that?”

“Vinca told me herself. She even showed me the pregnancy test.”

“Why didn’t you say anything at the time?”

“Because it was her private life. And because as far as the investigation was concerned, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Of course it goddamned would have!” He bridled. “There would have been three lives to save, not two. With a baby in the mix, there’d have been a hell of a lot more media attention.”

Perhaps he was right. To tell the truth, I’d never really thought of a blue line on a piece of plastic as a baby. I was barely eighteen at the time.

I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he shifted in his chair. He opened his notepad and began scribbling. It was some time before he turned back to me.

“Why are you so interested in Vinca if you think she was so dull?” I asked.

“I’m not interested in Vinca, I’m interested in the person or persons who killed her.”

“You really think she’s dead?”

“People don’t just disappear like that. Nineteen years old and all alone—or practically—with no resources.”

“So what’s your theory, then?”

“Ever since they found the money, I’ve been convinced that Vinca was blackmailing someone. Someone who didn’t like being threatened and did a little threatening of his own. Maybe the kid’s father. Could be Clément, could be someone else…”

As he closed his notepad, a couple of tickets fluttered to the ground. A smile lit up his face. “I’ve got tickets to a Depeche Mode concert tonight!”

“Where?”

“Parc des Sports. Want to come with me?”

“Meh. I was never really a synth fan.”

“Synths? You obviously haven’t listened to the latest albums.”

“They never did much for me.”

He narrowed his eyes and delved into his memories. “In the late eighties, Depeche Mode was the biggest band in the world. I saw them in Montpellier in ’88 at the Zénith. The sound—they were shit hot.”

His eyes glittered. I decided to tease him.

“In the late eighties, the biggest rock group in the world was Queen.”

“Oh, please! I wouldn’t mind, but you’re being serious. Now, if you’d said U2, maybe…”

For a few minutes we both lowered our guard, and in that moment, we were seventeen again. Stéphane tried to convince me that Dave Gahan was the greatest singer of his generation and I argued that nothing could top “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it had occurred, the spell was broken.

Pianelli glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet. “Shit, I’m late! I’m supposed to be in Monaco!”

“Another story?”