Page 72 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
While Helen went to answer the door, Ivy settled Jez by the fire, her eyes drifting around the cottage, tracing the familiar space. Less than a week ago, this room had been alive with music, laughter and the stomp of dancing feet. She looked up and counted the indentations on the ceiling. That impromptu party felt like another lifetime. She tried to pinpoint the spot where she’d danced with Fred, his hand firm in hers, their steps easy. ‘Better to have loved and lost,’ they said. She’d done thattwice, each time carving deeper wounds into her heart. Yet here she was, still standing.
A moment later, Trish hobbled in, Helen behind her.
‘Honestly, I’m like a three-legged dog. Don’t mind me,’ she said, lowering herself into the nearest chair.
Helen poured Trish a generous glass of wine, picked up her own glass and sat down across from the others. ‘Who wants to go first?’
Ivy hesitated, then set down her wine.
‘I saw someone earlier,’ she said. ‘Coming out of your back garden, Helen. Hood up, dark coat. He moved like he didn’t want to be seen.’
Helen’s expression tightened. ‘I knew it,’ she murmured. ‘When I got home, the back door was unlocked. Nothing’s missing ... but my laptop was open. Ialwaysclose it.’
Trish gasped. ‘Someone’s been in your cottage?’
Helen nodded, her face paling slightly. ‘Looks that way. But why come in and not take anything?’
‘Should we ring the police?’ suggested Trish.
Helen folded her arms across her chest, ‘and say what, that Ivy saw someone suspicious and I have a hunch they broke in and didn’t take anything?’
A shiver ran down Ivy’s spine. ‘Unless that man did take what he wanted – knowledge of what we’re doing. If he’s looked at your recent emails, he’ll have spotted those documents Hazim sent you.’And you sending them on to me,thought Ivy.
Helen’s hand flew to her face, muffling her voice. ‘Oh my goodness, Robby!’
‘Well probably not Robby himself.’ Said Ivy, ‘he was too short to be Robby, but probably someone he sent to investigate. He must have got wind that someone’s poking into FF – someone you spoke to, or maybe overhearing something in the pub. Do we have enough to take to the Charity Commission yet?’
‘No,’ Helen said shaking her head. ‘And this gets worse. I have a hunch all six donors listed in FF’s accounts are connected, but I can’t prove it. And here’s what’s really bothering me,’ she said, taking a gulp of wine. ‘I did a piece a few years ago on human trafficking. The financial patterns are identical, multiple shell companies funnelling money through a charity, then those same “donors” receiving inflated contracts for services that can’t be verified.’ She leaned back. ‘I think we might have uncovered a people-trafficking operation.’
Ivy let out a shaky breath. The group had thought they had uncovered fraud, which was bad enough, but people trafficking was horrific. Was Fred right? Were they biting off more than they could chew? As if sensing her misgivings, Trish locked eyes with Ivy.
‘If Helen’s hunch is right, it’s obvious why they keep removing everyone who stumbles into this. Ghastly though this sounds, the perpetrators make vast amounts of money exploiting people by trafficking them,’ said Trish
Ivy recalled Omar’s tale of fleeing Kabul, his desperate journey through the mountains. She shut her eyes, saying a quiet prayer for those people whose fate was even worse than Omar’s, suffering at the hands of the traffickers who pocketed the proceeds.
Helen’s voice was strained. ‘I just can’t join it all together.’
Ivy scanned the room, searching for whatever mischief Jez was getting up to. But despite her visions of the pup tearing around, doing zoomies and upending the manicured Christmas tree, he lay perfectly still beside the fire, his tummy soaking up the warmth.
‘Look at him,’ Trish said, reaching over for her glass. ‘Best behaved puppy in the village. I remember when you first brought him into the café.’ She laughed, ‘Bouncing off the walls, he was.’
Ivy frowned, watching her puppy sleeping. ‘I never taught him to lie still like that.’ The thought nagged at her like a loose thread. How had Jez learned to lie still without being trained?
Outside, car tyres skidded to a halt. Through the steamed-up window, Ivy caught the familiar outline of aSkoda estate. Her fingers fumbled for her glass. Fred.
‘So, about Christmas Day,’ Trish said, clearly trying to lift Ivy’s mood, ‘what time do you want me? Are we just three again, like last year?’
Ivy’s mind filled with Omar’s proposed menu: lamb on a bed of cardamom rice with carrots and raisins. He had spoken of making mantu dumplings too, and described the delicate, yielding dough, the filling spicy and fragrant. Under his supervision she had bought all the ingredients from an online Asian supermarket – black cumin, sumac, saffron threads fine as silk, Sichuan peppercorns that he promised would leave a tingling ghost of heat on her tongue. All the packets sat unopened in her cupboards. Could she try and make the dish without him? She sighed. No, she should go shopping, buy a turkey. And a Christmas pudding – expensive, but it was too late to make one now.
The familiar bang of Fred’s car door made her jump. ‘I ...’ Ivy’s voice cracked. He always slammed that door too hard. Although he’d been her neighbour for a couple of years, that followed two decades of Christmases at the vicarage, his wife’s absence a ghost at the table.
Jez’s ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps on the path.
‘I can’t ...’ Ivy pressed her fingers against her eyes. ‘I’m not ready to think about Christmas. Not yet.’ Her voice sounded strange in her ears, distant. ‘I’ll let you know, Trish. I can’t think straight, not with what Helen’s just said. If people are being ...’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
A knock at the door made them all freeze. Jez stood, his tailwagging hesitantly, caught between welcome and his owner’s anxiety. Helen set down her glass. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Ivy heard the creak of the front door opening. Cold air swept in, curling around her ankles.
