No Place Like Home by Jane Renshaw (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📕

‘The vet thinks Dad was right and it was only an airgun pellet.’ Kirsty caught Phoebe into a hug. ‘It only grazed him. He was unlucky because it hit a couple of blood vessels.’

Thank God, Kirsty seemed to have come out of her fugue.

Bram put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Well, big relief all round, eh?’

He gave Linda a hug for good measure, and Linda smiled at him and nodded, reaching out a hand to touch first Phoebe’s head and then Bertie’s flank.

They decided that it would be better, given the unwieldy nature of the cone, if Bertie travelled where he normally did, in the Discovery’s boot, where he had a dog’s-eye view out of the rear windscreen. Kirsty closed the boot on him gently. ‘It was probably kids. Kids messing about.’ She nodded, as if to reassure herself. ‘Just kids with an airgun.’

Those were five words which, in Bram’s opinion, did not belong together in the same sentence. He knew that people in rural communities had different social mores from those he was used to – Kirsty had told him so often enough – but Just kids with an airgun?

Really?

He didn’t want to make a big thing of it, though, so ‘Probably,’ was all he said, as he looked through the tinted glass at Bertie, who had settled himself on the blankets with a huff.

‘Thank goodness Dad didn’t find them,’ said Kirsty.

Max frowned. ‘But they need to be told, Mum. They need to be told not to blast away with airguns in our wood. At crows or at dogs or at anything else.’

‘And you think your grandfather would have restricted himself to giving them a bit of a telling off?’ Linda suddenly put her hands up to her face, and Kirsty touched her arm.

‘Mum? It’s okay, he–’

‘No, it’s not okay, Kirsty!’ Linda heaved in a big sigh, and dropped her hands to reveal a face stiff with distress. ‘Your father was convicted of assault last year and given a suspended sentence. If he gets into any more trouble – and I mean any more trouble – he’s going to prison.’

Phoebe stared at her grandmother.

‘Whooo,’ said Max.

Kirsty said nothing, so it was left to Bram to ask: ‘What did he do?’

‘Another driver pulled out in front of him at the Carrbridge junction – you know how bad that junction is?’ she appealed to Kirsty.

Kirsty looked blank, as if she hadn’t heard.

‘The man said the sun was in his eyes and he didn’t see David approaching. David tailed him to his house and confronted him on his driveway, started shouting the odds, and ended up punching the poor man. Several times. Broke his nose and jaw.’

Kirsty briefly closed her eyes. She hated violence of any kind, and wouldn’t even watch crime dramas on TV. Although she hardly ever talked about it, Bram knew how much she struggled with the bad memories of what she had been through as a teenager, and being back home must be churning it all up again. And now Bertie had been shot and she’d just discovered that her dad had been convicted of assault.

No wonder she was freaking out, in Kirsty’s own particular, quiet way.

And Linda evidently sensed this, because she attempted a smile in Kirsty’s direction. ‘But it’s all done and dusted – if he keeps out of trouble, there’ll be no more repercussions. We didn’t tell you because – well, there was no point in upsetting you.’

‘He had to appear in court?’ Kirsty asked at last. ‘There was a trial?’

Linda nodded. ‘He got a six-month suspended sentence.’

The first thing Bram saw as he drove over the little bridge and up the track to Woodside was the police car parked in front of the house, alongside a silver BMW he recognised as belonging to Scott Sinclair, Fraser’s best mate, who was a Detective Inspector with Police Scotland and was based at Aviemore, a tourist hotspot about ten miles away. Presumably Fraser had called him. Bram parked in front of the verandah and hustled everyone up the steps and inside.

‘Have the police caught him?’ Phoebe asked.

‘I don’t know, kleintje. How about you see if Bertie wants some water?’

‘I’m going out to see what’s happening,’ said Kirsty.

‘I’ll come with you. Kids, stay inside with Grannie and Bertie, okay?’

Phoebe immediately latched onto his arm. ‘No, please don’t go out there!’

‘Whoever it was will be long gone. They’re hardly going to hang around with the police all over the place, are they? Scott’s a very important policeman in CID.’ He pushed a stray strand of Phoebe’s hair back into her ponytail. ‘He’s here to make sure the careless person with the airgun is caught. And remember what the vet said, Phoebs? It was only an airgun pellet, and those aren’t really dangerous.’

‘It hurt Bertie!’

‘Yes, but it was only a graze, and he’s going to be absolutely fine.’

Phoebe nodded, and then she smiled up first at Kirsty and then at Bram. ‘Okay!’ And she skipped happily off to the kitchen to show Linda where Bertie’s water bowl was.

Their little will-o’-the-wisp. Bram smiled at Kirsty, and, to his relief, she gave him a little smile in return.

‘Tell your father to come back to the house at once, please, Kirsty,’ said Linda grimly.

They found David and Fraser standing at the edge of the wood talking to Scott. Scott Sinclair was one of those guys in whose presence Bram always found himself trying to stand tall and pull in his gut. Scott would definitely have a six-pack under that crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted grey tie. And he had a Paul Newman thing going on – bright blue eyes and chiselled features.

‘Dad,’ said Kirsty without preamble. ‘Mum wants you back at the house right now.’

‘Okay, princess.’

It bugged Bram when David called Kirsty that – there was an implicit sexism in it, not to mention classism. But Kirsty said she didn’t mind it, that it was just the same as Bram calling Phoebe kleintje. ‘Kleintje means “little