by Peter May
Diop gained easy access to the élite Université de Paris Dauphine, renowned for turning out the future captains of French commerce and industry. There he quickly developed into a brilliant all-round mind, so that by the time he graduated he was able, with just one year’s preparation at Sciences-Po, to sail through the Grand Oral and the stringent entry exams for the Écôle National d’Administration at his first attempt. He was, then, still only twenty-three.
Even today, however, he had not completely given up his football. As a student he had been the star player in ENA’s official student football team—a mix of current and former pupils who played in a Monday night league. Since his return to Paris, he was still turning out every Monday as a former pupil, and was still their star player.
Enzo put his hand over Charlotte’s to scroll back up to Diop’s photograph. He stared at him hard for nearly half a minute. It was difficult to believe that this smiling young man had tried to kill him. That ten years earlier he had been part of a ruthless and savage group of students who had murdered their teacher. All of them endowed with rare intelligence, each of them on the threshold of brilliant careers. Why on earth had they done it?
He had left his hand resting on Charlotte’s, and he became suddenly self-conscious. He quickly removed it. ‘So there’s our sporting connection,’ he said. He glanced up at the whiteboard. ‘The cup and the whistle must lead us, somehow, to the next body part.’ It felt awkward now to talk about body parts with the victim’s niece. Like speaking carelessly about a dead person to a recently bereaved relative.
‘I suppose the cup could be some kind of football trophy,’ Charlotte said. ‘The division one championship, or the Coupe de France.’
‘Or any cup won by one of those teams who was interested in Diop as a teenager.’ Enzo pulled a sheet of paper towards him and scribbled the names down. ‘Paris St. Germain. Metz. Marseilles.’
Charlotte stood up. ‘Football’s for boys. I’ll leave you to it.’ And she crossed to the fireplace and pulled the curtain aside, to disappear into the darkness of the attic staircase.
Enzo stood for a moment, wondering whether he should go after her. But decided against it, and sat down instead in front of the laptop. It only took him a few minutes to track down a UEFA website bristling with football statistics from around Europe. He scrolled back to the year 1996. The Championnat de France and the Coupe de France had both been won that year by Auxerre, the League Cup by Metz FC. The UEFA Cup had been won by Bayern Munich, and the Champions’ League by Juventas. Paris St. Germain, more affectionately known as PSG, had won the European Cup Winners’ Cup, and Germany had lifted the European Nations Cup at the end of a three-week competition in England. So two of the clubs who had pursued Diop as a schoolboy, PSG and Metz, had won trophies in 1996.
He heard Charlotte coming back down the narrow wooden staircase. She pulled open the curtain at the foot of the stairs, and emerged carrying a small television set which she placed on the far end of the kitchen table. It was an old set, with a built-in video player. She began searching in a drawer of the buffet for a mains extension.
‘What are we watching?’ he asked.
‘If the television still works I thought it might be useful to take a look at this.’ She lifted Enzo’s manila envelope from the table and took out the video record of the Schoelcher Promotion that Madame Henry had given him in Paris. Enzo had forgotten all about it. He had no idea what Charlotte thought they might learn from it. Perhaps she just wanted to take a closer look at her uncle’s killers.
He left her to set up the TV, and returned his attention to the computer. He typed PSG into the search window and hit the return key. The official website of Paris St. Germain came up at the top of the page. He clicked on the link. A menu down the left-hand side of the home page offered him a range of options from Matches to Ticket Sales. He selected Club, and from a sub-menu, Histoire. The page which downloaded offered a brief history of the club from its creation in 1970 to the present day. Enzo scanned the text, but nothing jumped out at him.
From a range of options along the top of the page he selected the period 1990-2000. A detailed history took him through that decade. The events of season 1995-96 focused on the winning of the European Cup Winners’ Cup—their first European trophy. He also read through an account of the following season. But again there was nothing to connect the club to any of the other clues. Or to François Diop. Enzo breathed his frustration into the rafters.
Charlotte had found a cable and was plugging in the TV set. She switched it on, and white noise issued from tiny speakers. She turned it to mute and said, ‘I was thinking about those numbers on the referee’s whistle.’
Enzo glanced up at the board, where he had written 19/3 beneath the photograph of the whistle. He had not yet given them any consideration. ‘What about them?’
‘What do they look like to you?’ She pushed the cassette into the slot beneath the screen, and like a mouth it opened up to swallow it whole.
Enzo looked at the numbers, vaguely shaking his head. He took a stab in the dark. ‘I don’t know…a date?’
‘Exactly.’
He sat up. Why had he not thought of that? ‘Nineteen, three. March 19th.’ He looked at Charlotte. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’ But even as he asked, he knew the answer. ‘19th of March, 1962. The date of the ceasefire in the Algerian War. There are streets and squares all over France named 19 Mars 1962.’
‘That’s the problem. There are too many of them, unless you can tie one to a specific location.’
Enzo looked at her, surprised. ‘You’d already thought this through?’
‘Of course.’
‘So when were you thinking of sharing it with me?’
‘I just did.’ She stabbed the play button on the set. ‘Do you want to watch this or not?’
He left the computer and moved around the table as a piano began playing some soft classical music. The group photograph that Enzo knew so well came up on screen, with the caption, PROMOTION VICTOR SCHOELCHER 1994-96. Then, VIE D’UNE PROMOTION, followed by close-up shots of the faces in the photograph. They were all there. Gaillard, Hugues d’Hautvillers, Philippe Roques, François Diop. Enzo stared at it grimly. How many others had they not yet identified?
With a bad sound cut, the picture jumped to a shot of hanging French flags, and the caption, LE CONCOURS. This was an extract from some French television news item. A voice-over full of gravitas listed the names of famous énarques. Jacques Chirac, Alain Juppé, Lionel Jospin, Valery Giscard d’Estaing. The leaders of a generation. And, thought Enzo, a roll-call of crooks. The camera lingered on the façade of ENA’s former Paris HQ in Rue de l’Université. These presidents and prime ministers, the voice-over intoned gravely, had all passed through these hallowed gates. And today, it went on, there were more than four thousand énarques running both the French government and the private sector.
The camera wandered, then, into the torture chamber where ENA’s panel of experts conducted the Grand Oral. Five smug interrogators sat behind a long, oval table smiling sadistically in anticipation of the inquisition to come. An elaborate timer stood on the table to count off the minutes.
The short film then segued through various sequences, amateur footage, and excerpts lifted from professional news reports. Students sitting in the ENA library discussing their course, shots of skiers at Puy St. Vincent during their bonding break. A lecture room full of students listening in rapt silence to their lecturer.
Enzo heard Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath, and realised that the lecturer was Jacques Gaillard. He was brusque and business-like, addressing his students with the absolute confidence of a man free of self-doubt. Even in this fuzzy clip, with its bad ambient sound, his charisma was electrifying. He commanded total attention, complete respect. As the camera panned around the students, Enzo saw the languid figure of Philippe Roques, leaning one elbow on the arm of his chair, listening intently to his teacher. Enzo hit the pause button, and the
picture froze on Roques’ face. ‘Philippe Roques,’ he said. And he turned to see silent tears running down Charlotte’s cheeks.
‘Bastard!’ she whispered.
Enzo let the tape run on. More shots of students, borrowed this time from BBC World. A caption, LA VIE à STRASBOURG. Students walked around the ancient streets of this centre of European power. In the language labs, yet more students conducted debates in foreign languages. German, Italian, English. They all seemed fluent. One student had enough confidence and wit to correct his chairman in English. ‘First, I would like to point out,’ he said, ‘that I am not Mister Mbala, I am Chief Mbala.’
And then there was Hugues d’Hautvillers, smiling, cocky, cracking jokes in German, aware of the camera on him and playing to the gallery. Enzo wondered what on earth had led him from precocious childhood to murder and suicide—if that’s what it had been.
The film cut to LES SPORTS. A mini-marathon. Students rowing and doing press-ups. And then a football match. A black player scoring a spectacular goal. François Diop. Fit. Strong. No wonder he had been able to overpower Enzo so easily. Enzo felt a huge surge of resentment and anger. These people had been given every advantage nature and society could offer. Intelligence, talent, privilege. And yet they had chosen to exercise their advantage by indulging in murder. Both then and now. Only now, it seemed, they were disposing of one another.
The end caption came up. BONNE CHANCE, TOUS NOS VOEUX, à BIENTOT, EN FORMATION PERMANENTE. The film was dated March 1996.
‘They graduated in March,’ Charlotte said quietly. ‘So they had five long months to plan and carry out the murder of my uncle. No rush of blood to the head, no crime passionelle. Just cold, calm, premeditated murder.’
She switched off the recorder, and it spat the tape back out at them, as if the cassette had left the same bad taste in its mouth as in theirs. They sat in silence, staring at the blank screen. Then Charlotte said, out of nowhere, ‘What about the Saints day? That came up in one of the previous sets of clues, didn’t it?’
Enzo did not immediately understand. ‘April 1st,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see….’
‘March 19th,’ Charlotte said patiently.
Enzo glanced at the board again and shook his head doubtfully. ‘We’ve already got a name.’
She shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to know.’
Enzo returned to the computer and tapped the date into Google. ‘Saint Joseph,’ he said. ‘It’s Saint Joseph’s Day.’
In the moments of silence that followed, neither of them could think of any relevant observation. Then Charlotte said, ‘I’ll pack the TV away.’ And Enzo returned to his search of football clubs. He typed METZ FC into the search window, and when he punched the return key a link to the official website of FC Metz appeared at the top of the page. He clicked on it and was immediately subjected to a passage of loud rock music accompanying flashing animated images of a footballer intercut with the club’s official shield.
‘What in God’s name’s that?’ Charlotte asked.
But Enzo had frozen, his eyes locked on the screen, his heart pulsing in his throat. The animated sequence finished on a final image of the club shield, and then cut to the home page. ‘Jesus….’
‘What is it?’ Charlotte came around to look.
‘The official emblem of Metz football club. It’s a salamander.’ He pushed back his chair and crossed quickly to the whiteboard. He wrote up Metz FC and circled it. ‘That’s it. That’s the place.’
‘Metz?’
‘Yes.’
‘More body parts? More clues?’
‘It must be.’ Enzo turned back to the board and starting slashing arrows across it. ‘All the arrows that pointed to Diop carry on to Metz. Then we have another arrow from the salamander. Metz won the league cup in 1996, so another arrow from the football trophy. And then a final arrow from the referee’s whistle. Another football connection.’
But Charlotte was not convinced. ‘What about March 19th?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the football stadium’s in rue du 19 Mars 1962. We’ll find out when we get there.’
Charlotte began studiously winding up the mains extension cable. ‘You might. I won’t.’
Enzo felt an unpleasant stillness settle on him. ‘You’re not coming with me?’
‘No. I have to get back to Paris.’
‘Don’t you want to know who killed your uncle?’
She turned on him, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘What do you care? All you’re interested in is winning your bet.’
If she had plunged a knife into his heart, she could hardly have hurt him more. But maybe it was no more than he deserved. He watched her in silence as she packed away the cables. ‘How will you get back to Paris?’
She shrugged, ‘You can drop me at the railway station at Tulle.’ And she lifted the television to take it back up to her room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I.
The car stood where they had left it, abandoned on the track. But there was no traffic here. Not even the local farmer came down this way. The back of the car was buckled and scorched where the truck had rammed them, and scraped all down one side where they had struck the dividing drum a glancing blow at the off ramp.
On his fourth failed attempt to start the car, the engine made a sound like tearing metal and abruptly seized. Now it would not even turn over. Charlotte got out and walked around to the front of the car. ‘There’s oil all over the path.’
Enzo released the hood and went to have a look. A small river of oil had run down among the stones, dividing and subdividing, before soaking into the earth. He lifted the hood and the pungent stench of warm lubricating oil wafted up into their faces. It glistened on every surface of the engine and its mountings. ‘Shit!’ Enzo dropped the hood and thought about it. They were miles from anywhere. And even if they could persuade a garagiste to come out, the car was unlikely to be on the road again anytime soon. He felt in the leg pocket of his cargos for his cell phone. Its tiny screen told him there was a strong signal here. He thought for a moment, then became aware of Charlotte looking at him.
She said, ‘Who are you calling?’
‘My daughter.’
Sophie answered quickly. ‘Hi, Papa. Where are you?’
‘Sophie, I’ve been in a road accident.’
‘Oh, mon dieu! Papa, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. But I need you to do me a favour.’ He took a deep breath and swallowed his pride. ‘Actually, it’s Bertrand I need to do me the favour.’
‘Bertrand?’
‘He’s got transport, hasn’t he?’
‘He’s got a van, yes.’
‘I need him to come up to the Corrèze and pick me up. And then take me to Metz.’ He paused. ‘Oh, and ask him to bring a couple of spades.’
II.
They went back to the house, and Charlotte made coffee. Then she climbed the hill and lay in the grass, propped on one elbow, sipping her hot drink and staring gloomily out across the valley. Enzo returned to his stone bench, and they waited, neither of them speaking to the other, through three long hours, as the sun sank lower in the sky.
By eight, Enzo was about to call Sophie again when they heard an engine straining on the road above. Charlotte locked up again, and they followed the railway ties up through the trees to Enzo’s car. When they got there, Bertrand’s white van was pulled in behind it, engine idling, and he and Sophie were out looking at the damage.
Sophie hurled herself at her father, wrapping her arms around his neck and nearly knocking him over. ‘Oh, Papa, I’ve been worried about you all the way here.’ She held his face in her hands to look at him. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine, pet, really.’ And he pulled her to him and hugged her tightly.
‘That’s some mess you’ve made of your car, Monsieur Macleod,’ Bertrand observed dryly. ‘What happened? Did you back into a tree?’
Enzo glared at him. ‘No, Bertrand. A tr
uck tried to run me off the road.’
‘It not only tried, it succeeded,’ Charlotte said.
Sophie spun around to look at her. ‘Hi.’ She waited expectantly for a moment. ‘I’m Sophie.’
‘I’m Charlotte.’ Charlotte held out her hand and Sophie shook it with unabashed curiosity.
‘So you and dad are…friends, then?’
‘Yes,’ Enzo said quickly. ‘And this is Bertrand.’
‘So I gathered.’ Charlotte and Bertrand shook hands, and she touched a fingertip to her nose. ‘Love the stud. Is it a real diamond?’ Enzo felt as if she was only saying it to annoy him. But, then, they had never discussed Bertrand, and she had no idea what he thought of facial piercing.
Bertrand nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yeah. Eighteen carat.’ Then, ‘Do you live here?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘It took us forever to find this place.’
‘It’s a holiday home. I live in Paris.’
‘Are you coming with us to Metz?’ Sophie asked eagerly. She was evidently anxious to learn more about her Papa’s “friend.”
‘I’m afraid not.’ Charlotte was awkward. ‘Your father said you would drop me off at Tulle. I’m getting the train back to Paris from there.’
‘Oh.’ Sophie was disappointed. ‘Sure.’
‘Do you have any idea how long we’re going to be away?’ Bertrand asked Enzo. ‘I’ve had to pay someone to look after the gym.’
