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

Max tapped at his phone and put it to his ear, then came to stand next to Bram. ‘Police, please,’ he said into the phone, and then: ‘What do I tell them? What’s happening?’

‘There’s someone in the house. Okay, okay, Phoebs, we’re safe in here. I’m going to pull the sofa across the door. Max, stand here with your back against it while I – Phoebe, check that the sliding door is locked.’

Phoebe jumped off the sofa and ran over to the door, then stopped, her hand on the curtain. ‘What if they’re right there?’ she said, her voice wobbling.

Bram hauled the sofa in front of the door and then went to Phoebe, pulling her into a quick hug and then putting her aside gently to twitch the curtain open and check that the door was locked. He removed the key and pocketed it.

‘Who’s in the house?’ Phoebe said in a small voice, clinging to him.

He pulled the curtain back in place. ‘I don’t know. Probably just – just one of the naughty boys. The police will be here soon to sort it out.’

He hugged her close, watching Max as he talked to the 999 operator, marvelling that the boy was able to keep his voice steady. His kids. His precious, precious kids. Someone had come into their house, into their home, was out there now, maybe, standing on the other side of that door –

The fear, the terror for them seemed to expand until it had nowhere to go, until, like a chemical reaction gone nuclear, it turned in on itself and changed, transmuted into pure, white-hot rage.

But he just stood, holding Phoebe, the rage coursing through him – useless, useless rage, because it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough to make him open that door and get out there and confront whoever was doing this.

‘I wish Grandad was here,’ muttered Max, and Bram couldn’t help but agree.

Are you a man or a mouse, Bram?

Turned out he wasn’t any sort of a man at all.

9

In the early morning light, Bram stood on the gravel area beyond the verandah, shaking his head. They were ranged in a semicircle in front of him – Kirsty, David, Fraser, Scott and Gemma the DC. Behind them, a man in a white suit was dusting the door for prints. It promised to be another beautiful day, already fragrant with pine resin and the dew evaporating off the grass.

‘I locked the front door,’ he said again. ‘I know I did. After you left–’ He turned to face Kirsty – ‘I locked the door behind you and put the key on its hook in the key cabinet.’

David shook his head, staring off.

‘You can’t have done,’ said Kirsty. ‘The door wasn’t locked when the police arrived.’

Bram couldn’t explain that.

‘Our working hypothesis,’ said Scott, ‘is that the intruder arrived with the intention of leaving the pig’s heart on the doorstep. He tried the door just on the off chance and found it open, so decided to opportunistically leave the heart inside.’

‘That message – “Your next” – surely that suggests that this isn’t just the kids the Taylors have been having issues with?’ Bram stared at Scott, willing him to put two and two together so he wouldn’t have to come out and say it in front of Kirsty.

That Andrew Taylor could be right.

That this wasn’t just kids.

That it had something to do with what had happened all those years ago.

That this was about Kirsty.

The back room of the Bull and Bell, a few blocks from the halls of residence, had been the venue for Zoë Fisher’s twenty-first birthday party. Bram had arrived late on painfully blistered feet, tottering through the door in his size 9 burgundy court shoes. Was Kirsty McKechnie here? The party was in full swing and, with almost everyone having followed the fancy dress code and come as a character from Father Ted, it was difficult to recognise people.

Zoë howled when she saw him. ‘Oh my God! You’re definitely the best Mrs Doyle!’

‘Thanks,’ Bram grinned, adjusting his hat, a blue felt 1950s number which kept threatening to fall off. ‘And don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a pretty good Tom.’

Zoë was dressed in a dirty T-shirt with ‘I shot JR’ on the front, jeans and filthy trainers, with her short hair mussed and mud on her face. She gave Bram a mad stare.

Bram shuddered. ‘Almost too good.’

‘I can’t believe how much trouble everyone’s gone to!’ she enthused. ‘And yes, before you ask, even Kirsty! She’s here!’

‘Ooh, really?’ Bram had done his utmost to bring this miracle about, but he still hadn’t expected her to come. He’d told Zoë, who was also doing history but in the year above him, all about Kirsty and how she needed to make friends, and got Zoë to ask Kirsty to the party. They’d set up an ambush to enable this to happen. Zoë had lurked in Bram’s room until they’d heard Kirsty leave hers and then pounced, engaging her in conversation and casually handing her an invitation. And then Bram had waged a campaign to persuade Kirsty to come, asking for advice on his costume and making suggestions for hers. She owned a fluffy white fleece, so he had suggested she accessorise it with a few well-chosen items and come as Chris the Sheep.

Now he could see her.

Standing by the far wall, with a glass in one hoof, was an adorable Chris the Sheep, wearing the fluffy fleece teamed with black leggings, black boots and black mitts. A sheep mask was pushed to the top of her head. Probably way too hot in this oven of a back room.

‘Hey, Kirsty!’ he tottered over to her. ‘You look great!’

Her strained expression was transformed by a huge smile. ‘Bram?!’

He attempted a pirouette to show off his costume. ‘How the hell do women spend their lives dressed like this? It’s a form of torture.’

‘The shoes?’

‘Yes, mainly the shoes.’ He kicked them off. ‘I’m going to ritually burn them tomorrow. But