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.
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 truck 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.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ Enzo said abruptly. ‘Can we go? It’s getting late.’
But before anyone could move, the back door of Bertrand’s van swung open and a sleepy-looking Nicole jumped out. She stretched, thrusting juddering bosoms toward the treetops and blinking in the late evening sun. ‘Why did no one wake me?’
Sophie and Bertrand exchanged looks.
Then Nicole’s gaze fell upon Enzo and she rushed to give him a crushing hug. ‘Oh, Monsieur Macleod, are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you.’
Enzo prised himself free of her, and glanced self-consciously towards Charlotte. ‘What are you doing here, Nicole?’
Sophie pulled a face. ‘She’s been hanging around the apartment for days waiting for you. As soon as she knew you’d phoned, there was no dissuading her from coming with us.’
III.
The sun had dipped behind the hills, but there was still light in the sky when they dropped Charlotte at the station in Tulle.
Enzo had squatted on the floor in the back of the van, Nicole prattling in his ear, while Charlotte sat up front in the passenger seat, with Sophie squeezed in between her and Bertrand. The teenager had chatted animatedly to Charlotte, eliciting more information in half an hour than her father had managed in over a week.
They all got out of the van in the station car park. Sophie kissed Charlotte on both cheeks. ‘You’ve got to come and see us in Cahors,’ she said. ‘You’d love it there, and Papa’s a great cook.’
‘Charlotte’s a very busy woman,’ Enzo said.
Charlotte avoided his eye. ‘That’s right.’ She shook Bertrand’s hand. ‘Thanks for the lift, Bertrand.’
‘
De rien
.’ He gazed at her admiringly.
She turned to Enzo. ‘You’ll let me know how you get on?’
‘Of course.’
And she turned and walked into the station. Sophie looked at her father. ‘You didn’t kiss her goodbye.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Sophie cocked an eyebrow. ‘Lover’s tiff?’
‘Don’t even go there,’ Enzo growled.
‘She’s a beautiful looking woman,’ Bertrand said.
Sophie tipped her head at him. ‘And don’t you go there, either.’ And then she grinned.
‘Can we go, please?’ Enzo opened the passenger door and held it open for Sophie.
She flounced past him and jumped in. ‘You’re in a right mood tonight, aren’t you?’
They got on to the A89
autoroute
for Clermont-Ferrand just outside Tulle, Enzo, Sophie and Bertrand all squeezed into the front, Nicole in the back, the roar of the engine and the smell of diesel filling the cab. It was Bertrand, finally, who broke the silence. ‘You said you were run off the road by a truck.’
‘That’s right?’
‘On purpose?’
‘Yes.’
Nicole leaned forward from the back and peered at him in the gathering darkness. ‘Why?’
Enzo took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you all have the right to know.’ He hesitated. ‘This murder I’ve been trying to solve….’
‘Jacques Gaillard?’ Sophie said.
Enzo nodded. ‘I’ve found three of his killers so far. Two of them are dead, and the third one has tried to kill me at least once.’
The youngsters were shocked to silence. Then Sophie said in a very small voice, ‘Why are we going to Metz?’
‘To find another body part, and the clues that’ll lead us to the fourth killer.’
***
By midnight, Enzo could not keep his eyes open. His head was rolling about on his chest. At Vierzon, Bertrand left the
autoroute
and took a D-road cross-country towards Troyes. Metz was an industrial town in north-west France, not far from the German border. It would be several more hours before they got there.
Bertrand said, ‘Why don’t you lie down and sleep, Monsieur Macleod? There’s a mattress rolled up in the back there. Nicole was using it earlier.’ He flicked his head towards the back of the van.
‘It’s very comfortable,’ Nicole said. ‘And I could do with some company back here.’
Sophie stifled a smile. ‘On you go, Papa. We’ll wake you up when we get there.’
Bertrand pulled in at the side of the road, and Enzo got out into the warm night air. There was nothing else on the road. He went around the back and climbed into the dark interior. The courtesy light below the rear view mirror barely reached beyond the driver’s seat, but what little light it cast illuminated Nicole’s beam of pleasure. ‘Over there behind the seats,’ she said, pointing. ‘I tied it up again.’
Enzo fumbled about until he found the mattress, rolled up and tied with string. As he untied it, the mattress flopped open across the floor of the van, and something struck him a glancing blow on the side of the head
‘Ow!’ he yelled. ‘What the hell….’
Bertrand retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment and shone it into the back. Caught in its beam, Enzo saw the familiar shape of Bertrand’s metal detector.
‘Bloody thing!’ It was as if it were following him. And he heard a muffled snigger coming from the front. He kicked it to one side and lay down on the mattress as Bertrand extinguished the flashlight and forced his gearbox through shot synchromesh into first gear. They moved off with a jerk.
‘Night, Papa,’ he heard Sophie saying, then after a moment felt the warmth of Nicole’s body as she plumped herself down next to him.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she said in the dark. ‘There’s plenty of room for both of us.’
He had no recollection of whether or not he responded. The rhythm of the engine, the thrum of tyres on tarmac, very quickly dragged him down into a dark, dreamy sleep where he was chased by salamanders and confronted by creatures with bloodied faces. He had no idea how much later it was that he awoke with a sudden, startling thought in his head. It was still dark, and the ever-present roar of the diesel seemed never-ceasing. Like jet engines on a transcontinental flight, it had become part of the very fabric of his existence. Nicole was fast asleep. He scrambled on to his knees and pulled at Bertrand’s shoulder from behind. Bertrand half-turned his head and Sophie looked back in surprise and alarm.
‘Are you all right, Papa?’
‘Why have you got a mattress in the back of your van?’
Bertrand turned away and fixed his eyes on the road. He said nothing. Enzo was sure he could see colour rising on his neck.
Sophie laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Papa. What do you think it’s for?’
This was not a thought that Enzo wanted to entertain. ‘For heaven’s sake, Bertrand, she’s my
daughter
,’ was all he could think to say. And immediately it occurred to him that his concern was more for himself than for his daughter, his fear of losing her.
Bertrand kept his eyes front. ‘I’m sure Sophie’s mum was someone’s daughter, too. And I’m sure you loved her just as much as I love Sophie.’
Sophie reached out to touch Bertrand’s cheek. Enzo could almost feel her pleasure in Bertrand’s words.
‘There’s no room at my mum’s,’ Bertrand said to Enzo. ‘And I know you don’t approve of me. So…’ He left the sentence hanging, with all its implications. Where else were they to go? Enzo was depressed by the thought that somehow he was to blame. Forcing them to make love on some seedy mattress in the back of a van. He felt even more uncomfortable on it now, and he retired silently into the back of the van like an animal with a self-inflicted wound.
He lay on his back, then, leaving a discreet distance between Nicole and himself, and thought of Pascale. How she had turned his life upside down, touched him with a forbidden happiness, and then left him with only the memory of it. He remembered Bertrand angrily saying to him of Sophie,
She’s not your little girl any more. So maybe it’s time you started letting her grow up
. Sophie was just three years younger now than her mother had been when Enzo first met her. But all Enzo could think of was the little girl he had raised, all her moments of tears and triumph. Her tearful first day at school, the first wobbling moments on a bicycle.
Don’t let go, Papa, don’t let go!
The hours spent in the open-air pool on the ële de Cabessut teaching her to swim. The joy of passing her baccalaureate. Moments replayed, some of them too close to those he had lived through once before with Kirsty as a child. Only, he had lost Kirsty through his own selfishness, and had no idea what he would do if he lost Sophie, too. Bertrand would never know how hard it was for him to let go.
He closed his eyes and succumbed to dreams of Charlotte, with her beautiful black eyes, and the soft touch of her fingertips on his face. Even in sleep there was no escape from the melancholy reminders of his life’s failures. And somewhere, in the last shreds of consciousness he found regret again that he had not handled his confrontation with her differently.
IV.
Sunlight poured in the back window and splashed across the mattress, hot through the glass, burning his clothes and his skin. Enzo stirred and rolled over, turning face-first into the large, round sensor pad of Bertrand’s metal detector. He awoke, startled and disorientated.
‘Morning, Papa.’
He turned to see Sophie smiling back at him from the passenger seat. ‘Where are we?’
‘Metz. We got here in the middle of the night. It seemed a shame to wake you. And, anyway, there was nothing you could do while it was still dark. So we just snatched a few hours sleep here in the front.’
The driver’s door opened, and Bertrand’s face appeared. ‘Is he awake yet?’
‘Yes, he is,’ Enzo said.
Bertrand grinned at him. ‘Morning, Monsieur Macleod.’
Enzo looked around. ‘Where’s Nicole?’
Sophie couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Still in seventh heaven after spending the night with you. If only her father could have seen you.’
Enzo glared at her and Bertrand said, ‘She went for a wander round the stadium.’
Enzo opened the back doors and climbed stiffly out into the morning sunshine, blinking in its glare. He slipped on his jacket and saw that they were parked beside a small river running along behind the stadium. He also noticed, with some disappointment, that they were not in the Rue du 19 Mars 1962. This was the more prosaically named Rue du Stade. Trees grew alongside the river, opposite a row of terraced houses and a sports shop. He turned to see the main stand stretching away towards the distant motorway. Stade Symphorien. The home of FC Metz since 1987. He saw the club shield on the side of the north stand, the double-cross of Lorraine on one side, a salamander on the other.