Page 74 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
She reached for her phone. Helen needed to see this letter.
Twenty-five
Except Helen didn’t answer. She was at work. Not wanting to frighten her, Ivy didn’t leave a message, but shrugged on her coat, clipped Jez to his lead and went to help Trish.
WithChristmas only days away, Brambleton had filled with tourists, and to Ivy it seemed like most of them had chosen to spend the morning in Prosecco & Prose. Londoners in expensive boots, walkers shaking off the cold, families in puffy coats stamping mud from their shoes. The café was full of the smell of frying bacon and the sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor.
‘What on earth’s wrong with you today!’ demanded Trish as Ivy’s elbow knocked the milk jug, sloshing half of it onto the counter.
‘Sorry!’ Ivy grabbed a cloth, but in her rush, knocked over the sugar bowl.
Trish sighed, but there was a smile in it. ‘I’m going to start charging you for wasted stock.’
Ivy wiped away the mess with sharp, quick movements. Her pulse was jittery, her mind elsewhere. There was no innocent explanation for that sinister man she had spotted yesterday – he had broken into Helen’s cottage, hacked into her computer, seen what was stored there: the charity’s accounts, Hazim’s copied documents, and the email traffic between Helen and Ivy sharing those scans.
Trish nudged her. ‘Alright. Tell me. What’s got you rattled?’
Ivy hesitated, before reaching into her apron pocket and removing the folded warning letter.
Trish’s face darkened, sending a wave of relief through Ivy – this meant Trish hadn’t received one.
Trish clicked her tongue. ‘Someone’s getting nervous. One more nudge and I reckon we’ll uncover both the truth, and who’s behind it.’
Ivy swallowed. ‘I feel responsible. I started this, now I’m worried about you. About Helen too.’
Trish snorted. ‘If someone comes for me, I’ll whack them with one of my crutches.’ She waggled her brows. ‘I reckon I could do some serious damage.’
Despite everything, Ivy laughed.
A call came from behind – ‘Two lattes and a bacon roll!’ – and Ivy spun back towards the machine, knocking her elbow against the steam wand. The sting was sharp, and Ivy winced, shaking her arm.
Trish gave her a piercing look. ‘Is that all that’s bothering you?’
Ivy didn’t answer. Instead, she focused on making the coffee. But Trish wasn’t fooled. ‘You miss him.’
Ivy pressed the button on the machine, watching the dark liquid drip into the cup. The truth was that Ivy missed both of them: Omar for his presence and their shared love of poetry; Fred for his friendship. She sighed; and for what might have been, but for that row. There. She’d admitted what it was: not a conversation, not a heated discussion, but a full-blown row. She grimaced recalling Fred’s spiteful words accusing Ivy of being selfish, about using Omar as a solution to her own loneliness.
‘At least he’s safe,’ Trish added.
Both were safe. That should be enough.
‘Drink at the pub tonight?’ suggested Trish.
Ivy conjured up her evening plans – Jez and food shopping – and somewhere beneath the ache, something small andstubborn started to glow. She smiled. ‘Why not. Meet you at seven? I need to do some shopping first.’
By 6 o’clock Ivy was staring at a display of Christmas puddings, their glossy packaging reflecting under the supermarket’s harsh fluorescent lights. Overhead, a tinny version of ‘Jingle Bells’ competed with the constant beep of self-checkout machines and the squeal of trolley wheels on polished linoleum. She did some quick mental arithmetic. Trish would expect a pudding. If she bought one, she could still afford a wedge of stilton, but why were cheese biscuits so expensive? She would have to bake some instead. What could she do about a starter? She tried to summon some enthusiasm for menu planning. It was challenging when it involved dried-out turkey instead of succulent lamb, but it diverted her from thinking of the Christmas table missing half its company. Fred uninvited because she couldn’t face trying to maintain a polite conversation with him, while a fourth chair – Omar’s empty chair – evidenced Fred’s heartless act.
‘Looks like we had the same idea about shopping.’
Ivy’s hand jerked, knocking a pudding off the shelf. Helen caught it smoothly. The Christmas music playing overhead suddenly seemed too loud, too cheerful. ‘I had a missed call from you this morning. I think I know what you wanted to talk about.’ Helen said, glancing around before pulling a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket. ‘I got one too.’ The same cheap copy paper, the same precise typeface. The same stark warning. ‘It was waiting for me when I got home from work.’
Ivy’s shopping basket grew heavy on her arm. ‘Do you think we should stop?’
‘Stop?’ Helen’s laugh was sharp enough to draw looks from a passing shopper. ‘Ivy, this is textbook intimidation. I used to get dozens of these sometimes when I was investigating certain stories. It means we’re close.’
‘Close to what? Getting ourselves hurt? Getting—’ Ivy lowered her voice, conscious of their public setting. ‘Getting Omar hurt, wherever he is? Fred might think he’s taken him somewhere safe, but Fred was a teacher, he wasn’t in the SAS.’
‘If they were going to hurt Omar, they wouldn’t have bothered warning us.’ Helen replaced the Christmas pudding on the shelf with deliberate care. ‘Think about it. They must have hacked into my computer, and they know we’re onto them. These letters, Omar suddenly disappearing but they don’t know where he’s gone ... they’re scared, Ivy. We’ve found something. The last thing we should be doing is giving up.’
