Peter May - Extraordinary People

‘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?’