Peter May - Extraordinary People

Charlotte was still typing and working the mouse. ‘There are quite a number of François Diops. Apparently Diop is one of the commonest names in Senegal.’ She was scrolling down a list of more than one hundred and thirty links. ‘Wait a minute, I’ll try to narrow the search by linking the name to ENA.’ She searched again, and this time only a handful of links appeared. Mostly articles or official documents relating to a high-ranking fonctionnaire in the French diplomatic service. She pulled up an article headed, DIOP TIPPED AS NEXT DIRECTOR OF PEACEKEEPING OPERATIONS. She quickly scanned the text. ‘This is him.’ And Enzo rounded the table to stand beside her and lean over the laptop to peer at the screen. He smelled the traces of perfume in her hair, felt the heat of her body next to his, and suffered a huge rush of regret. He forced himself to focus on the text of the article.

Diop was based at the Quai d’Orsay, in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. During the previous nine years he had been appointed to a string of diplomatic postings in Washington, Tokyo, and Moscow. He had embarked on that golden path after graduating from the Schoelcher Promotion at ENA as one of the top students of his year. His ethnic background had stood him in good stead and, according to this particular journalist, he was now being groomed by friends in the Foreign Minister’s office for a top position at the UN.

There was a photograph of Diop grinning lopsidedly at the camera. He was a good-looking young man. The caption claimed he was just thirty-five years old, a child prodigy who was more than fulfilling everything which had been predicted for him.

The article went on to delve into his “extraordinary” background as an underprivileged black kid, the son of Senegalese immigrants, who grew up in one of the most notorious banlieu in Paris. His exceptional intelligence was noticed early by his teachers, as was his wonderful natural ability as a footballer. It was rare to be blessed with one outstanding talent. But such brilliance, in both academic and sporting disciplines, was unheard of, certainly in a black Parisian ghetto kid. As a teenager he had been pursued by several top French football clubs: Paris St. Germain, Metz, Marseilles. But he had been persuaded by his French teacher to take the academic route. While his star might have shone brightly for a few short years as a top sportsman, his teacher had told him, it would have dimmed as surely and quickly as his body was destined to decline. But his mind would grow and expand for decades to come. It was good advice.

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?’