Chapter 4
André claimed he needed my help. At least, that’s what he said when he asked me to come along to the prison with him.
His client was Timotheo Larousse. You know how the mega ritch are—they only trust their own.
But what I sensed in his tone was that André was doing me a favour.
I would get to see how my boss interrogated Larousse, how he extracted information from him.
I could learn firsthand what I needed to do with Garros.
“I’ll be there,” I said, barely pausing as I dashed back out the door. Bastian questioned where we were going, but instead of replying, I stuck my tongue out at him, a childish grin spreading across my face. He sometimes makes me forget I’m supposed to be a professional.
So far, my Thursday was shaping up to be pretty amazing.
I wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted me. The man before me was short, with thinning white hair and a scraggly, greying beard, as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in ages. Larousse didn’t fit the image of rich and powerful I had in my mind.
André and I took our seats beside him.
“Well, Timotheo.” André’s voice shifted to suit the situation, firm, authoritative, yet warm and familiar, like a father guiding his son. “Let’s go over the facts for a moment to help my colleague understand the situation, shall we?”
Larousse relaxed. He stretched out his fingers and placed them on the table.
“Alright.” His voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper.
“Can you recount what happened on the afternoon of February 11th?”
February 11th. I didn’t remember the exact date, but I knew that Antonia’s death had occurred around that time.
The news had covered the case for hours, for days, until a more significant story emerged.
Here’s what I remembered from the news reports: Antonia Hawtrey-Moore was twenty years older than Larousse.
They first crossed paths at a charity dinner in Paris back in 2008, when she was still married to her ex-husband, and their relationship began that very same night.
Larousse had adopted Hawtrey-Moore’s daughter as his own, but she had kept her distance from him since his arrest.
“Ah. I’m so damn tired of repeating this story.
” He slumped back in his chair. “Antonia had been acting strange since the weekend. Damn it! She had been acting strange for weeks. But that’s how women are.
What do I know? I have a daughter around your age,” he said, almost without looking at me.
“My Antonia was like those Russian nesting dolls—you open one, and there’s another, and another smaller one inside that, and so on.
Every so often, you’d discover a new facet of her.
I thought whatever phase she was going through would pass.
She was distant, spending every morning with her cricket group and every afternoon at bingo with Ivet.
Ivet is our housekeeper. She cleans; she cooks…
When the girl was little, she took care of her.
So many years with her in the house made us close.
That day… it was Wednesday, I think. I was in my dungeon.
I call it that, but it’s just a living room.
A space just for me. In a house full of women…
I’m straying from the point. I was talking to some friends on FaceTime.
Joseph Badou and Antoine Benit. They’ve corroborated this, I believe.
That’s when Antonia and Ivet started shouting at each other.
You could hear it throughout the house. I don’t know what the argument was about.
Honestly, it was embarrassing me. Antonia knocked on my door after a while and asked me to come out, so I ended the call.
She was very upset. Ivet had quit and left the house.
I rested my hand gently on her arm, feeling her tremble beneath my grip, and promised her I’d go after Ivet and convince her to come back.
She begged me to do it as soon as possible, saying she couldn’t bear the thought of losing such a dear friend.
So, I went to Ivet’s house to fetch her. When I came back…”
Larousse sighed again.
“Antonia was already dead,” André concluded for him. “According to your first statement, Timotheo, you left the house around three and returned soon after eight.”
“Ivet insisted I had dinner with her before leaving, yes.”
“And according to the paramedics, Antonia had been dead for at least three hours by the time the ambulance arrived.”
The little man nodded.
“That’s right.”
André flipped through his file and slid a sheet across the table, angling it toward me. I leaned in, scanning the page. This woman, Ivet, had backed up Larousse’s story.
“You see, Tim, I need you to be honest with me. This weird situation with your wife that you mentioned… Is there anything else I should know about? Anything that could be used against you?”
The man looked in my direction. He furrowed his brow and turned his attention back to my boss, whispering, “De quoi tu parles, mon ami? Qu’est-ce que tu sais?”
I rolled my eyes, and my boss stifled a laugh.
“I don’t know anything. I can only make guesses. Let me see…” He imitated Larousse’s tone and his raspy voice. “Elle t’a trompé ? Peut-être que… Non. étiez-vous en train de vous séparer ?”
He wanted to know if Antonia had been unfaithful, if they were in the middle of a divorce. I translated his meaning in my head, watching Larousse’s expression shift. Before he could respond, André continued, his tone steady:
“Ah, Tim, just so you know, my colleague here understands French. So, no secrets, okay? I’m your lawyer. I need to know everything that could surface during the trial. And she’s here to help me.”
The little man buried his head in his hands.
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“About what? The cheating, the divorce, or that you shouldn’t keep secrets from me?”
“The last one.” He fiddled with his shirt sleeve.
“And also, about the divorce. I’m sorry I hid it from you until now, André…
It’s just not a topic I’m comfortable with.
We weren’t going to separate yet, understood?
My Antonia had only told me about her wishes once, about a month before… before… You know.”
“You didn’t talk about it again?”
“No, my friend, no… Well, yes. Shortly after, she said we’d wait until after our daughter’s birthday to talk to her family’s lawyers.
It was this week. Her birthday, I mean. My little girl just turned 21.
” Mr. Larousse turned the corners of his mouth down, looking like a rag doll.
“I haven’t been able to wish her a happy birthday. ”
André coughed.
“So, no lawyer was aware?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“Ivet, she knows everything about us. And maybe some of my wife’s friends, her cricket and polo acquaintances. I’m not sure about that.”
My boss put his hands on his hips, signalling that his part of the conversation was over.
“Alright. That won’t look good for you, Tim, but if it doesn’t come to light, there won’t be a problem. We’ll have to convince her to keep quiet.”
Larousse scoffed.
“Ivet is a… A casse couille! How do you say it here?”
Cabrona, I replied in my mind. Or toca pelotas. I have always believed insults weigh more in Spanish than in English, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Pain in the ass.”
“Pain in the ass! I care for her; she’s one of my oldest friends… Still, I’m not stupid; I don’t doubt she could say something against me if it suited her.”
André adopted an amused expression.
“And why would that suit her?”
“Who knows, who knows,” he deflected, waving a hand. “Promise me you’ll be the one to talk to her, André. Please. Convince her for me.”
“Don’t worry.” My boss smiled, and, like a devilish puppet, turned his neck toward me, pointing those gleaming teeth in my direction. “I apologise for delaying the proper introductions. This is Vera Rodríguez.”
Oh no.
Oh, no. I knew where this was going.
André didn’t waste a second before dropping the bomb. “She’ll handle it. You’re free tomorrow, right, Vera?” He stood from his chair, and I scrambled to keep up.
“Actually, I—”
“Perfect. You’ll meet with Ivet at noon.” He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. A guard appeared, ready to lead us out. “Bastian will send you the address.”
He stood up, and I followed.
I did have things to do on Friday. I had spent weeks preparing for Julian Garros’s trial, crafting a defence with care, phrase by phrase, that would please my boss, captivate the judge, and lead our client to safety—a defence that would allow me to walk out of the courtroom next Monday with my head held high, knowing we had won even before the verdict was announced.
I had planned my October 30th down to the minute:
At 8:30, I had a meeting with another of Saidi’s lawyers, Sarah, to discuss paperwork.
At 10:30, I would head to prison.
I had arranged a meeting with Julian at 11:30, my last chance to talk to him before the trial.
When I returned to the office, around 1:00, I would review what was discussed with André.
At 1:30, I would grab a bite to eat with Enzo Woods at the restaurant across from our building—a nice place with decent food, nothing too fancy, before spending the afternoon locked in my office, studying the case over and over again.
André had completely derailed my plans, crushing them and tossing them aside like yesterday’s news.
How was I supposed to squeeze in an interview with this woman?
This is London. She could live just around the corner or miles away on the other side of the city.
And my meeting with Julian? I couldn’t let all the hours of work I’d put into this case go down the drain now.
No. I wouldn’t.
I stopped in my tracks, but André continued walking toward the exit, oblivious. I pressed my fingers to my lips and let out a sharp, clear whistle. He turned around, his expression a mix of surprise and confusion.
“I’ll see you in the afternoon,” I shouted as I hurried back through the door.