Jo’s eyes widened. She didn’t think she’d have the nerve to let the great Ewan McLachlan even read the title of her book, never mind all the words that followed.
‘Ewan McLachlan?’ Noah said, before he took another swig from his beer bottle. ‘Who’s he?’
Jo’s eyes widened further, so much so in fact that she feared they might pop out of her head. ‘Noah Simpson! Please tell me you’ve heard of Ewan McLachlan? The famous Scottish crime writer? It’s a massive coup for your fiancée here to get him to Derry and into the shop. His reading has been booked out for months.’
Noah shrugged.
Libby tutted, clearly sharing Jo’s disbelief. ‘Noah, there are posters of him all over the shop. Brown eyes, messy brown hair. Intense-looking. Really kind of hot.’
‘Guys, you both know I don’t read much,’ Noah said, putting his hands up in faux surrender. ‘And as for hot – he’s not my type. He shouldn’t be yours either, Libby Quinn. You’re spoken for!’
Libby rolled her eyes. ‘I’m spoken for, not dead. I can admire a fine-looking man from a distance. You might not read much but you watch TV. And you loved The Knock and The Call on BBC – you know, those dramas with Inspector Tom McCreadie?’
‘Aaah!’ Noah said, his eyes wide in recognition. ‘I know who you’re talking about now. Yes, Jo, you should definitely get him to read your work. He’s amazing. I love a bit of McCreadie. Get him to make your book into a TV show too. I can be an extra!’
‘I’m only now feeling brave enough to let Libby read it, I’m not anywhere near being able to let someone like Ewan McLachlan read it,’ Jo said, the very thought making her stomach flip.
‘Sometimes you have to take a chance when one arrives at your door,’ Libby said, her voice soft. ‘I risked everything – every penny I owned – to open the bookshop because the property I had always loved came on the market. Look how that turned out. I love the shop, it’s doing better than I could’ve hoped for, and, well, I’ve your brother here in my life.’
‘For better or worse,’ Noah said with a smile. He looked at Libby and Jo watched as the pair of them kissed. Libby had made quite a compelling argument, but she wasn’t quite ready for taking a chance of that magnitude yet.
‘Some advice from Ewan is more than enough,’ she said. ‘You read it, and tell me what you think. God, I hope you like it. Or at least, I hope you don’t hate it. I’ll email it to you as soon as I get home.’
‘Good. I’ll drink to that,’ Libby said, and raised her beer bottle to clink it against Jo’s. Noah, of course, joined in and the three of them sat and chatted, and pondered all of the what ifs until they were so tired they simply had to sleep.
7
The Breakfast Club
Libby and Noah were still sleeping soundly when Jo got up and showered. She poured herself a glass of orange juice – or, more accurately, half a glass of orange juice as that was all that was left in the carton. It did little to quench her thirst, so she downed a pint of cold water from the tap, before pushing open the windows to the flat and letting the fresh morning air in.
It was April and while she could still detect some freshness in the air, she guessed by looking out that it would turn into one of those blissful spring days where the sun would give a taster of what was to come later in the year.
It was likely to be a busy day at the pub, she reckoned. It was that time of year when winter was cast aside and people were itching to make use of the beer garden now that the sun brought a little warmth with it.
Jo liked working on days like these. The sun always brought a lighter mood to proceedings. People seemed happier. More content in themselves. She smiled as she breathed in a lungful of the fresh morning air, and then quickly realised – as her tummy rumbled loudly – that she was starving and needed to eat.
Tempted as she was to just raid the pub’s kitchen, where she knew Erin had fresh home-baked sourdough bread for her famous toasties, as well as plenty of bacon, she also knew she wasn’t brave enough to face her friend’s wrath if she meddled with her meticulously maintained stocks. One look would be all it would take for Erin to spot something was amiss and, never being able to lie to her friend convincingly, Jo knew she would be in big trouble.
Besides, a Sunday morning wouldn’t be a Sunday morning without a stroll down to see Harry, where she’d have a chat and pick up some of the Sunday papers for the pub too. It was a tradition she enjoyed – that early-morning chat when the shop was quiet.
Jo pulled her damp hair into a loose ponytail and glanced at herself in the mirror. She was presentable, if a little pale thanks to the late night, but she’d do. Slipping her feet into her Converse, she grabbed her purse, keys and jacket and set off with a spring in her step down the lane.
When she pushed open the door of Harry’s shop, she was surprised to see the chair, from which Harry normally held court, was empty. She glanced around, but the shop was most definitely uninhabited. A sudden fear swept over her – the memory of Harry’s heart attack still very fresh in her mind. She could easily recall the horrible sinking feeling in her stomach when she had arrived on the lane to see an ambulance outside the shop and heard that Harry had been found collapsed behind the counter.
Tentatively, as fear clawed at her, she called his name, ‘Harry? It’s Jo. Are you here? Is everything okay?’ She cast quick glances down the three short aisles of the shop, and even behind the deep freezer that stocked ice cream, ice lollies and frozen peas. There was no sign of him and no reply either. She called his name again, a little louder, and took her phone from pocket, in the event she’d have to make an emergency 999 call for an ambulance.
When she peeped over the top of the counter, half expecting to see him lying splayed on the ground, her heart sang with relief to see that there was no one there. But the relief was quickly replaced with confusion. Where on earth was he then? It was very unlike Harry to leave his shop unguarded at any time.
She called his name a third time, before hearing an almighty crash from the stockroom. Quick as a whippet, she climbed over the counter, sending community notices, posters and ‘For Sale’ index cards fluttering to the ground, and pushed open the door to the stockroom.
‘Harry!’ she shouted.
The room was in darkness and she reached for the light switch. No lights came on, but there was another crash. This time, even louder.
Her panic was almost at fever pitch now. Was he injured? Was there a burglar in this dark room who had taken him hostage and was riffling through the stock in search of something worth stealing.
She was about to dial 999 and get the police to come and check the room for her when she felt the weight of another human bundle into her, pushing her out of the way, before disappearing back through the door into the shop.
Her nerves in shreds, she followed the figure into the light and was stunned to find a man, perhaps in his late twenties, holding a broom handle in his hands, which he was very much pointing in her direction.
‘Take what you want from the till,’ he said, in a northern English accent. ‘But there’s not much there. It’s been quiet.’