Chapter 4
The shop is in a large half-timbered building in the old part of the town, part of a pedestrianised area around the old spring that attracted Victorians a hundred and fifty years ago. The sign on the front of the shop, painted in black on a wooden board, reads ‘The Brown Egg – Guaranteed Local and Organic’. The interior is furnished with reclaimed oak dressers and trestle tables. It sells locally made bread, cakes, cheese, meat and vegetarian pies, and a small selection of perfect-looking fruit and vegetables in season. Jars of jam and chutney from a local supplier. In one corner is a selection of Easter eggs, dark chocolate and expensive in minimal recyclable wrapping.
Andy is serving a customer as Owen walks in, carrying a large tray of sourdough loaves. He waits for the customer to leave. “Is Naomi here?”
“Sure. Could you take them through to the back? She’s through there.”
The area at the back is small, boxes of produce stacked about with just space for a small table where Naomi is working at her laptop. She looks up as Owen comes through, and he puts down the bread on top of a box of spring cabbages. She smiles, stands and kisses him, before returning to her laptop.
“Do you want a coffee? Andy will make you one.” She picks up her own espresso cup.
“No, I’m fine. How’s it going?”
“Frantic. Everyone’s shopping for Easter; I’m almost out of chocolate. Hopefully there’s more coming but the driver is running late.”
A bell attached to the front door rings as customers come in.
The door rings again, and Andy puts his head round the door. “More Easter Eggs. Where shall I put them?”
“Hang on, I’ll come through.”
The driver is stacking four large boxes each containing eight eggs, and on top is a single large egg on its own. Dark chocolate in clear cellophane, with a yellow ribbon round it and a small yellow envelope attached to the ribbon.
“What’s this?” she says, pointing to the egg on the top. “That’s not part of the order.”
The driver looks at his tablet and shrugs, “It was a separate order, for delivery today.”
“No, it must be a mistake. When was it ordered?”
He flicks his finger over the screen. “Second of March. A month ago. And we were asked to attach the ribbon with the envelope.”
Naomi frowns, and detaches the small envelope from the ribbon. On the envelope is written “Love and Monsters”, and inside is a memory stick. She turns to Owen. “One of your jokes?”
“No, nothing to do with me. Adam’s mystery egg?”
She turns back to the driver. “Do you know who ordered it?”
He looks back at his screen. “No, it doesn’t say. I can check if you like? Claire might know.”
“No, it’s Adam. Another of his afterthoughts. Thanks, I’ll take it with the others.” She turns to Andy. “These can all go straight on the shelf when you have a minute. I’ll be out the back. I need to see what’s on this.” She is looking at the memory stick in her hand. She hesitates, and looks at Owen, as if offering it to him. “‘Love and Monsters’?”
“Is it the name of a film or something?”
“I don’t know. Come on.”
They go through to the back of the shop, shutting the door behind them. There are two files on the memory stick. The first is a document, with just the words ‘Happy Easter, love from Adam.’ She smiles and opens the second file. It is a series of photographs. The first is a picture of the front of the shop taken on the day they opened; Adam standing with his arm around Naomi’s shoulders underneath the newly painted sign with their name and logo. Second is a picture of the two of them standing outside a shop in a quiet street in Italy. Naomi is smiling and wearing a necklace with a black marble egg on a silver chain, framed by a yellow scarf.
She pauses, her eyes bright, remembering the day in Italy. Her hand goes to her neck but the necklace is not there. She opens the next picture. It is a screen shot from a mobile phone with a single text message, dated several months earlier. It reads
I’ve got someone to take adam to the doctor so I’ll come over now xx
It takes her a second to realise with shock that it is a screenshot from her own phone. She looks at the screen, shaking her head, and then picks up her mobile and scrolls back to find the message that she sent to Owen. She turns the laptop so that he can see the image clearly.
“He knew,” she says at last.
“Bastard.”
“He hacked my phone. I can’t believe he hacked my phone. He knew everything. Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps he suspected. Or just a suspicious type.”
“When did he find out? How long did he know? He never hinted. He was never meant to find out.”
“Is there anything else on the stick?”
She turns back to the laptop and scrolls through the rest of the pictures. There are four more. Two are pictures of Naomi and Owen. One taken in a nearby restaurant; they are sitting facing each other side-on to the camera; Owen holding Naomi’s hand across the table. The other is taken outside Owen’s flat. They are standing on the doorway kissing. “These are recent,” she says. “He couldn’t have taken them, he must have paid someone to follow us.”
The next picture is a screenshot of the familiar home page of the website for The Brown Egg. The final picture is the same web page but with the word ‘Apology’ in large bold letters across the middle of it.
“Apology? What does he mean?” says Owen.
“I have no idea. It’s our website. I haven’t been into it for a few days. but it was fine when I last looked.”
Nervously, she opens up the website on her laptop. The homepage has been altered so that it looks like the picture, with the word ‘Apology’ in the middle. She clicks on the word and a new, unfamiliar, page opens up. Her picture is at the top of the page next to the logo for the Brown Egg, and below in plain black text on a white background it reads:
I am sorry, I have been cheating you.
When we set up the Brown Egg we promised that as far as possible everything we sell would be organic and local. But recently I decided that we could make more money by substituting cheap, imported and mass produced products. I knew that you, our customers, would never realise, wouldn’t appreciate the difference.
I’m sorry, I let you down. I’m donating to charity the extra profits plus £5000 by way of apology.
Naomi
She says nothing. She looks at Owen.
“The absolute bastard,” he says. “Take it down.”
Fingers shaking, she closes the page and goes into the admin site. The laptop asks if she wants to put in the saved password, but the password is rejected. She tries again, typing it in this time, but still can’t get in. “Hang on, I need to find the right password,” and she opens an app on her phone. She types the password in again, carefully, but it still doesn’t work.
“He’s changed the password.”
“When did you last work on the site?”
“Not for ages. We had some special offers on-line at the start of the year, but since then there was no need. We don’t generally sell seasonal things through the website; and Adam mainly looked after it. But as I said, the site was fine a few days ago.”
“He must have set up the new pages and put a delay on them coming into effect. Can you even do that?”
“I don’t know. I guess so; or perhaps he got someone to do it for him. Owen, what do I do now? without the new password I can’t even close down the site while we sort this out. There’s an IT guy we have used when we have problems before, I’ll give him a call.”
“Go back to the new page he has written.” Naomi reopens the page. “He says you have given money to charity. Have you checked the account recently?”
“The operating account is fine – I was paying bills this morning. There’s a deposit account as well. We put aside the tax we need to pay. Hang on, I’ll have a look.”
She types in her log in details and password into the bank’s website. The current account is fine, but the deposit account is nearly empty, and shows that £15,000 was transferred the previous day to the Motor Neurone Disease Association.
She sits, looking at the screen, shaking her head, her face flushed. She wipes her eye with the heel of her hand.
“But he’s dead. How can he have set all these things up? How long was he planning this for?”
“Must have been months. Call the bank, they know he’s dead. They shouldn’t be acting on instructions someone has given if they have died. At least they should have checked with you. Who’s your bank manager?”
“We don’t have a manager any more; just someone in a call centre in Manchester. I can try them, but what do I say? The money has gone to MND. It won’t look good if I ask for it back.”
“Can you afford it?”
She stands up, and turns to Owen, holding out her arms for a hug, burying her head in his shoulder, sobbing gently.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s get out of here. We need a drink.”