(The affiant swings his leg. He rests his hands on his knees and forces himself to keep his composure.)
EW: Until a few days ago, I thought he (Julian) was a normal person with a normal job. We’ve known each other since we were kids. He studied business, or some shit like that. He told me he’d been hired as an accountant, and I never asked him anything else about his job. He never asked me either. We respected each other’s business.
AM: What do you do for a living, Mr Woods?
EW: I’m studying. I don’t have a job yet.
AM: Ok. So, you can’t tell us any more about Julian’s clients?
The affiant pauses. He looks at the security camera and then looks back at the police chief.
EW: He mentioned an important meeting a few weeks ago… maybe it was with a foreign airline. I don’t remember any details, sorry.
AM: Are you up to date with news about the case?
EW: Not very much. Why?
AM: Are you not aware that an investigation has been opened into KwaitAirlines? All the national channels ran some kind of report on it a few days ago. They are Garros’ biggest clients. Your friend… Garros has hired legal representation; it doesn’t look good for him. Saidi Lawyers. Do you know who they are?
(Pause.)
EW: Yes. Yes, I do. I’m sorry, I don’t watch the news. I don’t know anything else that would be helpful.
AM: If you change your mind, you know where to find us. Thank you for your cooperation.
Chapter 24
I finished reading the excerpt from Enzo’s police statement. I had frozen in place, unable to return the folder to its place in the file, unable to stop rereading the words, as if going over them over and over would change their meaning.
Enzo was a friend of Julian Garros.
Enzo knew I was his lawyer.
I remembered mentioning the case to him… and he pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about!
First, he hid who he really is, and now I discovered that he had lied about that too. What else had he lied tome about?
Shaking off my shock, I focused my attention on finding more information that might answer my questions. If A didn’t contain any files on the Antonia, maybe they were stored in H. I ran my eyes over the names. Nothing. I searched the M for Moore, a sinking feeling settling in my gut.
Montaigne.
Montpellier, SL.
Moore, Antonia Hawtrey.
Whoever was in charge of sorting that list in alphabetical order needed a good slap across the face. I pulled out the folder and began to read.
Unlike Eloïse’s folder, this one didn’t contain bank details or police statements that should be kept from the public. What I found was something the family would have given an arm and a leg to keep hidden. And here I was, uncovering the truth. Oops.
They were copies of emails from January of the same year, emails sent to an email address that did not reveal the name of the recipient. Emails signed by Antonia.
Oh, mon chéri. Mon soleil, toi, la seule personne que j’aime vraiment.
My blood seemed to freeze, almost like my heart had stopped pumping, so shocked that it’d forgotten how to. I’ll translate what that sentence meant: Antonia Hawtrey-Moore was having an affair.
I kept turning pages, looking at the documents, looking for a way to fit the puzzle in my head. And I found it. There, tucked among countless love letters and bills for manicures and luxury spas, was a document that stood out from the rest.
The autopsy of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore.
