Eighteen
As Ivy stepped outside her cottage, Omar emerged from Fred’s.
‘I was going to walk Jez,’ she explained, securing the puppy to his lead.
‘I’ll come with you.’
They strode along the pavement, the scrape of Omar’s boots creating a reassuring rhythm against the frozen ground, the puppy squirming, bending around and trying to bite the lead.
As she walked, Ivy reflected on how well Jez had behaved around the pheasant on their walk yesterday.
Maybe he was intuitively a good dog. It certainly wasn’t a result of her training.
She suspected today’s antics were a protest at being cooped up inside the cottage.
Omar reached over and gave the lead a sharp tug and Jez swivelled his head to point forwards. A few seconds later the puppy dragged Ivy sideways to a lamp post, then a few paces up the bank, Omar took the lead off her and tugged the dog back down to the path.
The village green lay in tranquil stillness.
At the centre stood the majestic Scots pine, colourful strands of lights sparkling in its branches in the dim afternoon light.
Ivy paused, savouring the sight of countless tiny bulbs all pulsing in a mesmerizing, orchestrated symphony of crimson and emerald.
Omar didn’t look at the display. Ivy adopted a cheerful tone, ‘Look at those lights.’ She nodded toward the tree. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’
He gave a small grunt, his face unreadable. ‘Yes.’
Ivy nudged him gently. ‘It’s nice to get out, isn’t it? Walk around and enjoy the Christmas spirit. People are so kind, you know. Look how they decorate. It’s like they’re all trying to make the world a little brighter.’
He passed her the lead and peered at the tree, his expression distant. ‘Bright. Yes.’
The puppy yanked at the lead, dragging Ivy sideways toward a particularly fascinating bush.
‘Jez, for heaven’s sake!’ Ivy tugged him back, only for him to lunge forward again, and before Ivy knew it, she became tangled in the lead.
She heard Omar chuckle, a low, soft sound, which she copied, relief flooding through her. God did indeed move in mysterious ways.
‘He’s like a tornado in a tiny package,’ Ivy said in mock exasperation. ‘I swear, I can’t take him anywhere.’
‘He is lively,’ Omar said, with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, though he quickly masked it.
Ivy sighed, trying to untangle the puppy’s leash.
‘Look, I need to tell you something important. I’m digging into what’s really going on at FF.
’ The lead now untangled, she looked up at him, hoping to see something on his face – relief, pleasure – that she was helping him, but his expression was blank. ‘Helen’s helping. We—’
His eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘Why did you speak to her?’ His voice was a mixture of fear and rage. ‘I trusted you.’ Jolted by his angry words, Ivy’s voice wavered: ‘I didn’t tell her anything about your past, or that you have a sister.’
She laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off, making her heart clench. ‘Omar, I haven’t betrayed your trust. She knows nothing about Laila, or why you can’t return.’
His gaze softened and a weariness set into his posture. ‘Let it be.’
‘The thing is, Helen used to be a journalist. She knows how to investigate.’
‘No,’ he interrupted, his voice rising. ‘We don’t talk about this now. Not here, not now.’
Ivy froze. His tone was so intense, so final. ‘But—’
He held up a hand, silencing her. ‘It’s Christmas soon. Don’t ruin this special time by talking about ...’ He faltered, shaking his head and muttering, ‘the work of the devil.’
Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but just then Helen walked past, her coat wrapped tightly around her, her hair bouncing with each step.
For a moment, Omar’s eyes locked on hers and his expression altered, a brief spark of affection replaced the fire in his eyes.
It was fleeting, but it was enough for Ivy to notice.
Before she could react, Helen was gone, swallowed by the bend in the road. Ivy shook her head, dismissing the thought. No, it wasn’t anything like that. Now he understood his secret was safe, he was probably grateful for Helen’s help.
Ivy pulled Jez back from another attempt at eating grass, then peeped over at Omar. His face was still caught in a swirl of conflicting emotions.
‘Alright,’ Ivy said, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. ‘You’re right. It’s a shame to spoil the atmosphere. But we’ll do this soon. You can’t run forever.’
He didn’t answer, but the tightness in his shoulders eased, and his eyes met hers, not defensive now, just cautious. It was enough. For now, at least, the tension had thinned. She’d trusted her gut bringing Helen into this, and for once, it hadn’t backfired.
The location had been Helen’s suggestion, somewhere no one could interrupt their concentration.
Barnstaple Library smelled of old paper, furniture polish and the mustiness that only decades of accumulated knowledge could produce.
The radiators clicked and hissed softly, their warmth creating a drowsy rhythm that matched the hushed atmosphere as Ivy and Helen sat side by side, poring over documents.
Helen pushed a page toward, Ivy. ‘Look at this,’ she whispered, her finger tracing a line of figures. ‘The annual return talks about a donation of ￡75,000 for new teaching equipment, but if you compare it with the balance sheet ...’
Ivy peered at the papers, aligning them carefully side by side. ‘I see it,’ she murmured. ‘The accounts show the fixed assets reducing in value. So where did that money go?’
‘Exactly. Here, look at this,’ Helen said, placing a different page in front of them.
‘This is my stab at recreating that line of the fixed asset register. This isn’t the sort of kit that gets sold on – tables, chairs, books.
It starts the year at ￡150,000. Their accounting principal is to depreciate at a rate of 25 per cent.
So, if we knock off ￡42,500 and add ￡75,000 for the new assets, even assuming they bought nothing else at all, the number should go up. ’
‘But it goes down.’
‘You’ve got it,’ Helen said, a note of approval in her voice. ‘Documents are just like people. These numbers tell a story. Or rather, they’re trying to hide one.’
Ivy completed Helen’s thoughts. ‘The accounts don’t lie. They just need someone patient enough to hear what they’re really saying. The spaces between words hold more truth than the words themselves.’
From somewhere nearby came the soft thud of books being reshelved, the squeaking wheels of a library cart. A young mother shushed a giggling child two tables over, the sound briefly punctuating Ivy’s concentration.
She reread the chairman’s statement:
There was a generous donation of ￡75,000 specifically to fund new teaching equipment and this has been fully invested.
There was something about those words, that bothered her. ‘Does the whole tone of this sentence strike you as a bit defensive?’ she asked Helen, pointing at the relevant text.
‘Do you know what, I think you’re right,’ replied Helen.
Ivy clicked her tongue, remembering countless times similar defensive patterns had revealed deeper truths. ‘So, we look at not just what’s said, but how it’s said.’
‘Exactly,’ Helen said, sliding another document toward her.
‘Now, look at the signatures on this. One of the contacts I spoke to, Hazim, copied some documents before he left. This is one of them. Approved by a man called Fowler, who the Charity is named after; and he’s also listed as a major donor.
He might be authorised to sign, but Hazim never met him and that’s why he queried it just before he lost his job. ’
Ivy felt a familiar sensation – the same one she’d experienced when piecing together the complex human stories behind her parishioners’ problems. The small thrill of connections forming, of truth emerging from chaos.
Outside, rain drummed against the windows. The library lights brightened automatically in response to the darkening sky, illuminating their work with greater clarity.
‘We’re building a case,’ Ivy whispered. ‘Just as I once helped people see the truth in their own lives.’
Helen beamed at her. ‘Different calling, same skills: listening carefully, documenting meticulously, pursuing truth, whether for salvation or justice.’
By the evening, a small Christmas tree in a ceramic pot had claimed a spot on the counter of Prosecco & Prose.
It drooped with handmade decorations from the village school, while condensation traced delicate rivulets through the spray-on snow on the windows.
Michael Bublé’s voice drifted from hidden speakers, competing with the clink of glasses and the pop of fresh bottles of Prosecco being opened.
By eight o’clock, Ivy was due for a break.
Less than three weeks to Christmas, she thought, and she hadn’t even started on her Christmas card list, let alone the shopping.
She glanced around the café. Fred and Helen sat tucked into a corner.
They were sitting side by side. Close. Unnaturally close, in Ivy’s opinion.
Omar, meanwhile, was wandering alone among the bookshelves.
Isolated and unnoticed, he drifted between shelves like a solitary page torn from its binding – disconnected, fragile and yearning to be free.
Helen reached across the table, briefly touching Fred’s arm.
It was a gesture which spoke of a casual intimacy.
Fred responded with a gentle smile and Ivy counted the seconds it lasted, sensing a complex knot of emotions she was not ready to examine.
She told herself she didn’t need to – she was looking at two people with a shared profession who enjoyed each other’s company. Nothing more.