Socialists and young trade union members did not want to play against the North

Africans. Only the Italians agreed to play them and this was encouraged by the

Ministry of Sport as a way to integrate both minorities. Some things haven’t

changed, he thought glumly. But then he caught himself: yes they had. Look at

the French national soccer team that won the World Cup in 1998, captained by

Zidane, a Frenchman from North Africa. And he allowed himself a small glow of

satisfaction at the way the young sportsmen of St Denis had grown out of this

nonsense and played happily with blacks, browns and even young English boys.

The Maghrébins were enthusiastic players but not very skilful, and invariably

lost to the teams of young Italians. So, in the interests of getting better

games the Italians offered to help the North Africans with some coaching. Very

decent of them, thought Bruno. And the main coach for the Italian League was a

player for the Marseilles team called Giulio Villanova.

Bruno sat up in bed. Villanova was the name of the man that Momu had remembered.

This was Momu’s father’s team! Bruno read on avidly. In those days of amateur

teams before football players could dream of commanding the fantastic salaries

they earned these days, Villanova was happy to coach the Maghreb League in

return for a modest wage from Leon Blum’s Ministry of Sport. Sounds like

somebody back then had a good idea, thought Bruno, and it would be very pleasant

if somebody were to pay him even a token stipend for all the training he did

with the tennis and rugby minimes. Dream on, Bruno, and besides, you enjoy it.

Under Villanova’s coaching, the Maghreb teams became better and better, and some

of them began to win matches. The best team of all was the Oraniens, the boys

from Oran, who won their League championship in March 1940, just before the

German invasion that led to France’s defeat in June and the end of organised

sports for the young North Africans. The chapter went on to analyse the

possibility that, had the war not intervened, the success of the Oraniens and

the Maghreb League might have secured them the chance to play the Catholic and

Socialist Youth and thus begin the process of assimilation.

But Villanova, the social workers, and the players over the age of eighteen had

already been conscripted into the Army. The young Arabs that were left began to

play among themselves informally and the Maghreb League collapsed, leaving only

a memory. Bruno thumbed quickly through the rest of the thesis, looking for

photos or lists of the players’ names or more references to the Oraniens or

Villanova, but there was nothing. Still, he had the phone number of the author

of the thesis, and that was a lead to be followed up in the morning. Well fed,

well pleased with finding the name of Hamid’s team, and deeply satisfied at

having evaded Duroc’s trap for motorists, Bruno turned out his lamp.

He rang the author as soon as he got into his office in the morning. The teacher

of sports history at Montpellier University was intrigued by Bruno’s question,

delighted that his thesis had turned out to be useful to someone other than

himself and his teaching career, and declared himself eager to help. Bruno

explained that he was involved in a murder inquiry following the death of an

elderly North African called Hamid al-Bakr, who had kept on his wall a

photograph of a football team dated 1940. The police were very interested to

learn more about this, he said. The victim’s son believed that he had played in

the team and had been coached by Villanova, and since the victim had been

holding the ball when the photo was taken, he was either the captain or the star

of the team. Was there any more information?

‘Well, I think I have a list of team names in my research notes,’ said the

teacher. ‘I wanted to check whether any of the players became famous after the

war, but none of them seemed to make it into the professional teams in France.

They may have done so back in North Africa, but I had no funds to take my

researches over there.’

‘Can you find the team list for the Oraniens in 1940? And do you have any team

photos?’ Bruno asked. ‘Or anything more on Villanova – that seems to be the only

name we have.’

‘I’ll have to check, but it won’t be until I get home this evening. My research

notes are stored there and I have to teach all day. I do have some photos, but

I’m not sure if they’d be relevant. I’ll check. And Villanova seems to have

dropped out of sporting life during the war. He doesn’t reappear on any team

lists that I came across, nor at the Ministry of Sports when it re-opened in

1945. I’ll call you back this evening. Okay?’

Bruno hung up, telling himself he was probably following a false trail. Still,

the disappearance of that photo was one of the only clues they had and he

thought

J-J

and Isabelle would be impressed if he could come up with some new

evidence. And, being honest with himself, Bruno knew it was Isabelle whom he

wanted to please.

The inquiry had made little real progress that Bruno knew of. The tyre tracks

had matched, but only confirmed what they already knew, that both young

Gelletreau and Jacqueline had been in the clearing in the woods overlooking

Hamid’s cottage. In any case, they had admitted going there at various times to

make love, while firmly denying seeing Hamid or visiting his cottage, and even a

second forensic sweep had failed to produce any new evidence that could break

their story. The one big hole in their case was Jacqueline’s lie about being in

St Denis on the day of the killing. She had first claimed that she had simply

come to pick up Richard to take him back to her house, but she was lying again.

Playing truant from his lycée, Richard would have stayed at her home in Lalinde.

Under separate questioning, the boy had firmly denied being in St Denis at all

that day but, even when caught in the lie, Jacqueline stuck to her story.

J-J

and Isabelle assumed that her jaunt probably had something to do with the drugs,

making a pickup or a delivery, and she was more frightened of the drug dealers

than she was of the police.

Bruno had a sudden thought. Most of the Ecstasy pills in Europe were said to

come from Holland. He picked up the phone and rang Franc Duhamel at the big camp

site on the river bend below the town.

‘Bonjour, Franc, it’s Bruno and I have a question for you. Those Dutch lads who

stayed at your site for the Motor-Cross rally, how long did they stay?’

‘Salut, Bruno. They stayed the whole week. They came down late on the Friday

night, stayed the week and went back the next Sunday. There were about thirty of

them, a couple of those big camping vans, a couple of cars and the rest on

motorbikes. Along with the camping vans for some of the teams that were

competing, I was nearly full that weekend. It was just what I needed to start

the season.’

‘Franc, I know you have that wooden pole across the entrance and a night

watchman, but do you run security during the day? Take note of car registration

numbers and all that?’

‘Certainly. The insurance requires it. Every vehicle that comes in gets recorded

in the book.’

‘Even visitors, even local cars from round here?’

‘Everybody. Visitors, delivery trucks, even you.’

‘Do me a favour. Look up the visitors’ book for May the eleventh, and see if you

have a listing for a local car with a twenty-four registration.’ He gave Franc