Twenty-seven
‘I think maybe it’s time to go home,’ suggested Helen.
Ivy didn’t move, her gaze fixed on her half-empty glass.
The fizzing Prosecco, symbolic of celebrations, seemed to taunt her.
She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could hold in the guilt threatening to spill over.
Helen’s touch on her arm was light, and meant to be reassuring, but it only made Ivy’s throat tighten. She should have kept her mouth shut.
‘Come on,’ said Omar, rising and helping Ivy to her feet.
Outside, a wind chime clinked out a slow, uneven tune.
It grated against the quiet night, jangling in time with Ivy’s rising unease.
In a reassuring voice, Omar reminded Ivy she was the only person who knew he and his sister had been interpreters, and he doubted the Taliban would move against the family of someone accused of drug smuggling over a year ago who had since fled.
‘But I think, when I speak to Farid, I will ask him to warn my sister and her family, just in case.’
That made Ivy cringe with embarrassment. She couldn’t think of how to respond so she changed the topic. ‘Where were you, where did Fred take you?’
‘Didn’t Trish tell you?’
She shook her head.
‘Her cousin has a cottage near Exeter.’ Ivy didn’t hear the rest of what Omar said. It was all falling into place. That’s why Trish had been so sure Omar was safe – he’d been spirited away under Operation Ghost Refugee.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Outside her cottage, Omar nudged her with an elbow. ‘You should come in for a nightcap,’ he said.
Ivy hesitated. The thought of seeing Fred after everything she’d just done made her feel nauseous. She had embarrassed herself tonight, her actions reckless, her temper frayed.
‘Be patient where you sit in the dark. The dawn is coming.’
‘Rumi?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Not a direct translation, but true to his teaching.’
She smiled. Omar would tell Fred what had happened in the pub anyway.
Ivy fidgeted with her cross while Omar knocked on the door. When it opened, the first thing she noticed was Fred’s eyes light up. He held the door wide, and the pair slipped inside.
‘Ivy would like a drink,’ announced Omar.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Fred, excitement thrumming in his movements as he fetched two glasses from the sideboard then poured wine.
‘I’ve been going through all those documents Hazim took – I asked Helen for them – and with everything I’ve learned about accounting, I think I’ve found the key. ’
Ivy’s heart picked up pace. She took a glass from Fred and gulped at the wine. ‘Go on.’
Fred placed a folder on the table and flipped it open.
‘Helen told me she had a hunch the major donors were connected. Well, I think she’s right, and I think I can prove it.
What’s more, I’ve found out why. If you follow the money, donations go in, but nearly as much comes out: payments to companies controlled by the same people. ’
Ivy’s eyes popped wide. ‘What?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Omar.
‘How much money is involved?’ asked Ivy.
‘I can only see one side of that,’ admitted Fred. ‘How much goes in. I can’t see how much comes out because we only have a snapshot, Hazim took copies of a few sample payments. But from the amounts I can see ... a lot.’
‘A lot as in hundreds, or a lot as in thousands?’ asked Ivy.
‘The latest accounts list this man, Fowler who I guess the charity is named after he donated half a million.’
‘Half a million pounds?’ cried Omar.
‘I know, but that may not be the size of it,’ said Fred.
‘The accounts give a list of all donations that are above two per cent of the charity’s income.
I haven’t finished digging, but the first one I looked at, I can’t trace the ownership.
It fizzles out into offshore companies, so you can’t see who actually owns anything.
There’s only one reason people create structures like that – to hide something.
The charity’s biggest donor has been siphoning money.
’ He tapped another sheet. ‘Shell companies owned by the donor. I bet this man Fowler is laundering money through the charity, cycling illegal funds through a legitimate entity, then taking out more than he put in. And as if that wasn’t enough, looking at the latest accounts he filed, he’s been claiming deductions and evading tax. ’
Ivy inhaled sharply. ‘Evading? That’s illegal, isn’t it? And it should be easy to prove, enabling us to topple this man, Fowler.’
Fred grinned, a victorious glint in his eye. ‘Exactly.’
Omar ran a hand through his hair. ‘They must have thought I knew about all this. That’s why they’ve been pressuring me to go back to Kabul where I can’t cause trouble. Over here, people would be interested in this, but in Kabul not so much.’
Ivy felt a burst of hope. ‘We need to go to the Charity Commission. This is fraud, on a massive scale.’
‘It is,’ agreed Fred, ‘but we could do with someone on the inside to check we’re right. Get some solid evidence.’
‘Farid!’ suggested Ivy, smiling at Omar.
‘It would be better if it was someone in London,’ replied Fred. ‘The donations aren’t made in Kabul.’ He crossed his arms, his jaw tight. ‘I’m wondering if Robby might be persuaded to help us.’
‘Robby?’ cried Ivy. She glanced at Omar whose face had drained of colour. ‘He’s the last person who’s going to help us.’
Fred thrust a spreadsheet in front of Ivy and Omar. ‘I think I know why Robby is so determined to protect the charity. I checked online – most small charities pay their bosses less than a hundred grand a year – Robby gets two hundred thousand.’
‘Trish said she checked, and he wasn’t being paid more than the average.’
Fred tapped the side of his nose. ‘She just looked at his reported salary. If you dig through the accounts, you’ll spot a bonus scheme.’
‘My goodness. So, it’s just greed,’ she murmured to herself. ‘That’s it? That’s why he’s protecting this man, Fowler?’
Fred had finally unearthed the truth – Robby was helping Fowler for cold, old fashioned self-interest. He was being paid far too much, and he knew it.
That was why he hadn’t asked the right questions.
Why he’d turned a blind eye. Why he’d done Fowler’s bidding without a second thought.
And the worst part? There was nothing illegal in that.
Suddenly Ivy found herself with Fred’s arms wrapped around her in an impulsive hug. It was a quick embrace, barely more than a heartbeat, but when she realized what was happening, she pulled back awkwardly, cleared her throat and turned to busy herself with tidying the scattered papers.
She sat down heavily, rubbing her temples. Turkeys and Christmas, security and comfort – what could they possibly say to appeal to Robby’s better nature?
Nothing came to mind.
She closed her eyes. ‘I’ll pray for inspiration,’ she whispered. It was all she could do.
It was the last Friday before Christmas and the café felt suffocating.
Heat from the ovens, the bodies packed-in and Ivy’s own rising stress made the air feel claustrophobic.
The morning had seen a continuous flow of customers mostly weaving through the bookshelves; each left cradling carefully chosen gifts wrapped in bright tissue paper, tied with a festive ribbon.
The queue stretched to the door. The espresso machine screamed for attention, and somewhere behind her came the sound of yet another bottle of Prosecco being opened.
And in the middle of it all, Ivy’s brain refused to focus on customers, too busy spiralling over the turkey.
If she put it in at seven, it’d be done by eleven – no, wait, that clashed with the church service.
If she put it in when she got back, did she have time to rest it properly?
What about the roast potatoes? And why, oh why had she invited Fred?
Stop this, she scolded herself. Christmas has always been a marathon.
You managed to juggle multiple services and cook lunch for a crowd .
If she could survive that, she could manage a meal with Fred despite their row.
Ivy ran a hand through her hair and told herself to forget about the big day. Catching sight of Helen at the counter, spooning marshmallows out of her hot chocolate, she remembered that she too would be there, with Omar, and Trish; everything would be just fine.
Helen caught Ivy’s eye. ‘The children are excited about the dress rehearsal for the Christmas Day Nativity,’ she said. ‘They’ve been practising their lines all week.’
Ivy smiled, feeling a tug of nostalgia. She had once led that very service, watching over the children as they stumbled through their lines, their faces alight with the magic of Christmas Day.
Ivy hoped Victor wasn’t planning to embellish it.
She had always kept it simple; the arrival of the Three Wise Men, no unnecessary theatrics.
Families wanted the whole service to last an hour maximum and for Ivy there was always the next service to dash to.
‘I won’t be at the rehearsal,’ Ivy said, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, then drying it with paper towel before placing a cookery book in the centre of a sheet of red tissue paper.
‘Today’s the last day for us here, and tomorrow I’m taking Omar into Barnstaple to do his Christmas shopping.
’ She glanced up to see Omar’s eyes dancing with amusement.
‘I have never done Christmas shopping before.’
Helen laughed. ‘Then it’s about time you started. Why not come with me and try the village shop first.’