Page 67 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
As she reached the wheelie bin, a smack against her shoulder made her jump. She spun around, startled, only to find Fred grinning from behind his own bin, a perfectly formed second snowball clutched in his hand. ‘Gotcha!’ Fred laughed. The sound was infectious, and she laughed in return. For a heartbeat, she recalled the awkwardness from yesterday in the church. But then his playful eyes met hers, and the tension melted away like ice cream in the sun.
Before she knew what she was doing, Ivy dropped the bin bag, dug her hands into the snow and scrunched together the first snowball she had made for over thirty years. She took aim and hurled it at Fred’s grinning face. He ducked, but it knocked his cap off, and Ivy felt a surge of pride. Fred charged again. The sound of their laughter echoed off the cottage walls as they ducked behind bushes and wheelie bins, lobbing snow missiles at each other. Ivy felt a spark, something wild and liberating that she hadn’t felt in decades. The soft, powdery snow stung pleasantly against her cheeks, and every snowball carried with it the echo of long-forgotten, youthful glee.
As she paused to catch her breath, she put out a hand, balancing herself against the garden fence, her heart pounding and all her senses alight. Fred’s eyes shone with mirth. The memory of that kiss still sent shivers down her spine. The way his touch had ignited a fire inside her was impossible to forget.
Ivy scanned his face for clues to his thoughts but found none, only the pure delight of a man enjoying a winter’s game.
The absurdity of it all struck her: two adults, breathless and rosy-cheeked, their recent embarrassment dissolved intoplayful warfare. Snow clung to his hair, transforming him into something boyish and carefree, so different from the guarded man who yesterday had stood awkwardly beside her in the church.
A realization settled over her. Fred made her feel more alive than she had in years. Not just in this moment of laughter and chaos, but in all the small ways he had quietly worked his way into her life.
She lowered her arm and the snowball she had been preparing crumbled through her fingers.
‘Surrender?’ he asked, his breath forming silver clouds in the crisp air.
‘Maybe,’ she said, but she was smiling now, really smiling, for the first time since that kiss.
He approached cautiously, as if she might launch another frozen missile at any moment.
They stood together, the silence between them no longer fraught but peaceful and she felt all the frozen places in her heart beginning to thaw.
‘I’ve brought a fresh bottle,’ announced Helen later that evening, plonking the wine down on the scarred wooden table in the corner of the Smuggler’s Inn. She sat beside Fred then leaned over, her eyes on Ivy and Trish who were sitting opposite.
‘You’ll both need it.’
Trish’s brow furrowed. ‘That bad?’
Helen grimaced. ‘I have disturbing news.Unusual banking activity.’
Across from her, Ivy saw Fred roll his eyes. He spoke tersely. ‘Why not take a night off?’
Ivy ignored him. ‘What do you mean, Helen?’ she asked.
Helen pulled out a laptop. ‘I’ve been going through more of those documents from Hazim.’
‘And?’ prompted Ivy.
‘First, it’s the number of bank accounts.’ Helen pulled up a spreadsheet. ‘Look at this copy of the cash account. Fifteen accounts with small transfers bouncing between them almost daily.’
Trish squinted at the screen. ‘Could be nothing. Different departments have different budgets.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Helen said, taking a sip of her drink. ‘Until I saw these.’ She switched tabs. ‘Large cash withdrawals in Turkey and Greece. Why? The website claims their activities are mostly in Afghanistan.’
Trish gave a low whistle. ‘Ivy, the documents we looked at were expense claims from those countries too. Does FF have branches in Greece and Turkey?’
Helen shrugged. ‘Not mentioned anywhere, but it gets worse.’ Helen’s voice dropped.
She pulled up scans of paperwork. ‘Look at these descriptions: Transportation services; relocation assistance; secure passage coordination. All with massive payments. Why? This charity is supposed to be training teachers in Afghanistan. Maybe there’s the odd shipment of supplies, but that wouldn’t explain all this.’
‘Whatarethey transporting?’ Trish muttered, her drink untouched.
‘Tell us what you think is really going on,’ added Ivy.
‘It’s methodical,’ Helen said. ‘The multiple bank accounts fragment the money trail into small, less noticeable amounts, and the invoices justify it all.’
Fred’s face went pale, and Ivy felt a tingle of unease – he understood accounts. ‘For what purpose?’ asked Trish. ‘What are you saying?’
Helen closed the laptop, meeting their eyes. ‘Fraud.’
