CHAPTER 3 - A Warning

Isabella had received angry emails before.

She had been called incompetent by politicians, accused of being biased by football supporters and once received a twelve paragraph message from a man who claimed to feel personally insulted by her review of a restaurant.

But the message waiting in her inbox on Thursday morning was different.

It contained no insults

no dramatic threats

just one sentence.

'Some truths are better left buried.'

She stared at the screen for a few seconds before closing the email.

Then she opened it again.

The sender's address was an innocuous mix of letters and numbers.

There was no signature, explanation or indication as to how the person had got hold of her work email.

She forwarded it to the newspaper's technical department and made a note in her investigation folder.

After that she did what she always did when she felt frightened.

She worked.

By ten o'clock Isabella had contacted three former Westbridge employees, requested public financial documents and arranged a conversation with a sports lawyer who had once advised professional football clubs.

Two people refused to speak and one promised to ring her back.

The lawyer agreed to interview the following afternoon.

Progress.

Small progress but progress nonetheless.

"You're making that face again."

Isabella looked up as Chloe stood in the doorway of their shared office, holding a paper bag.

"What face?"

"The one that suggests you're about to personally destroy an entire institution."

"I'm investigating a football club, not planning a revolution."

"Could have fooled me."

"I brought breakfast."

Isabella looked inside and saw a croissant and a chocolate muffin.

"You're a wonderful person."

"I know. Now tell me why you've been staring at your computer like it owes you money."

Isabella hesitated.

She had considered keeping the threatening messages to herself.

Not because she was particularly brave but because she knew what would happen if she told Chloe.

There would be concern.

Questions.

Possibly an insistence that Isabella stop investigating until the newspaper could establish whether the threat was credible.

And she wasn't ready to stop.

"Someone sent me an anonymous email."

Chloe's expression changed.

"What did it say?"

Isabella turned the screen towards her.

Chloe read the message then read it again.

"Isabella."

"I know."

"No I don't think you do. This isn't someone complaining about your article. This is someone trying to frighten you."

"Which means they might know something."

"Or it means someone is trying to intimidate a journalist. Both are bad."

Isabella took the muffin from the bag and broke off a piece.

"I'm not going to abandon the investigation because someone sent me a message."

"I didn't say you should."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you should be careful."

Chloe leaned forwards.

"Promise me you won't meet any anonymous sources alone."

"I promise to use my professional judgement."

"That is not a promise."

"It is the best you're getting."

Chloe sighed.

"Sometimes I wonder why I am friends with you.“Because I'm charming.”Because you once helped me move flats in the rain."

"That too."

They exchanged a brief smile and the tension in the room eased.

Then Isabella's desk phone rang.

"Isabella Reed."

"Miss Reed, my name is Peter Lawson, I used to work in Westbridge's accounts department."

Isabella sat straighter.

"Thank you for calling me back."

"I shouldn't be doing this."

"Then you don't have to say anything you're uncomfortable sharing."

There was a pause before he spoke again.

"Are you alone?"

She glanced at Chloe.

"Yes."

"Good. Listen carefully. The payments you're looking into aren't new. They began several years ago, before the current management team took over."

Isabella reached for her notebook.

"Do you know who authorised them?"

"I have an idea."

"Can you tell me?"

"Not over the phone."

"Mr Lawson, I need to understand what I'm investigating."

"And I need to know that I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for."

His voice trembled slightly.

Isabella softened her tone.

"I won't publish your name without your informed agreement. I also won't publish an allegation without verifying it."

"That sounds reassuring."

"It is a promise."

Another pause and Isabella continued.

"There was a company," he said , "a consultancy. It received payments connected to player transfers, but I never understood what services it actually provided."

"Do you remember the company's name?"

"Meridian Sports Advisory."

Isabella wrote it down.

"Was it connected to someone at the club?"

"I can't prove that. But whenever I questioned the invoices, I was told to leave them alone."

"By whom?"

Before he could answer, the line went dead.

"Mr Lawson?"

Nothing.

She tried calling back, but the number was unavailable.

Isabella stared at her notebook.

Meridian Sports Advisory.

It was the first concrete lead she had received.

She immediately searched the company name in the newspaper's archive and online public records.

The company had been registered several years earlier, then dissolved.

Its records showed a London address and two directors.

One of those names made her stomach tighten.

Richard Vale.

Westbridge FC's current director.

"Chloe."

Her friend moved towards her side.

"What have you found?"

Isabella pointed to the screen.

Chloe read the entry then said,"Oh, that is not good."

"No."

"Does your source have proof?"

"Not yet. But he says the payments started before Vale joined the current management team."

"Could be legitimate."

"Could be."

Isabella opened another tab.

She searched the second director's name.

Nothing immediately useful appeared, the person had an ordinary name and a thin online presence.

Then she found an old article from a regional newspaper.

It concerned a dispute involving a former Westbridge employee who had accused the club of mishandling financial records.

The article was seven years old.

The employee's name was Thomas Reed.

Isabella stopped breathing for a moment.

Her father.

She read the article from the beginning.

It described an internal disagreement over financial documentation. The club had denied wrongdoing, while Thomas Reed had declined to comment publicly after leaving his position.

The article did not explain why he had left.

It did not explain what had happened afterward.

And it did not explain why her father had spent the following years avoiding every conversation about Westbridge FC.

Isabella leaned back in her chair.

"No," she whispered.

Chloe looked at her.

"What is it?"

Isabella shook her head.

She could feel the old memories stir, unwelcome and sharp.

Her father sitting silently at the kitchen table.

Her mother crying behind a closed bedroom door.

The whispers among family friends.

The day Thomas Reed had packed a suitcase and told Isabella he needed time to put things right.

He had never properly explained what had gone wrong.

Isabella had been seventeen when he left.

For years she had believed his silence meant he had something to hide.

She had built her career around the idea that truth mattered because lies could destroy lives.

Now the first real lead in her investigation had led her directly to him.

"Isabella," Chloe said carefully."Talk to me."

She turned the laptop towards her.

Chloe read the article, then looked back at her friend.

"Oh, love."

" Don't.

I haven't said anything."

"You're looking at me like I'm about to fall apart."

"Are you?"

Isabella swallowed.

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

Chloe reached across the desk and squeezed her hand.

"You don't have to solve everything today."

"Yes, I do."

" Why?"

"Because if my father was involved in something illegal, I need to know."

"And if he wasn't?"

Isabella looked at the article again.

"Then I need to know that too."

For the next two hours she searched every available record connected to her father's departure from Westbridge.

She found little beyond the old article and a brief statement from the club denying that any employee had been unfairly dismissed.

Her father had never been charged with a crime.

He had never publicly defended himself either.

The uncertainty was worse than any answer.

At three in the afternoon, Margaret called her into the editor's office.

"Close the door."

Isabella obeyed.

Margaret sat behind her desk, reading a printed copy of Isabella's article.

"You have a promising lead," she said.

"But I want you to be careful with the next stage."

"Because of the anonymous messages?"

"Because of the people involved. Vale is influential, and Westbridge has a considerable legal budget."

"I understand."

" Do you?"

Margaret placed the paper down.

"If you discover that your father is connected to this story, you must tell me. We cannot allow a personal relationship to compromise the investigation."

Isabella felt her face grow warm.

"My father has nothing to do with my work."

"That may be true. But you have a right to know the potential conflict exists."

"Are you suggesting I should step aside?"

"I'm suggesting that we establish the facts before making decisions."

Isabella nodded reluctantly.

When she left the office she had a new problem.

She could no longer pretend this investigation was simply another assignment.

Someone had threatened her.

A former employee had given her a lead.

And her father's name had appeared in the very story she had been determined to uncover.

Outside, the afternoon light was fading.

Isabella opened her phone and found her father's number.

She had not called him in months.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

Then she pressed the call button.

It rang four times before he answered.

"Isabella?"

His voice sounded older than she remembered.

"Dad."

Silence.

"Is everything all right?"

She looked down at the notes in her hand.

"I need to ask you something about Westbridge FC."

The silence on the other end changed.

It became heavier

More deliberate.

Finally, her father spoke.

"Where did you hear that name?"

Isabella closed her eyes.

She had her answer.

Not the whole truth.

Not yet.

But enough to know that whatever had happened seven years ago had never truly ended.