Break In 

Ryan O’Shaughnessy, baker, barista and owner of the Top o’ the Morning coffeehouse, pulled his bike to a stop in Rothcote High Street as the church clock struck five. He switched off the engine and pushed the machine through the arched gateway into the courtyard. Shop fronts and windows lay in darkness, with the Christmas tree in the centre of the square the only illumination.

Ryan parked the Kawasaki in its usual spot and fished for his keys.

He loved the dark winter mornings when hoarfrost mantled the trees, loved the strings of golden lights that draped the spreading beeches along the High Street and gave the town centre an otherworldly feel. Whatever the hour of the morning, the weather, or his state of mind, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

When he reached the back entrance of the coffeehouse, his good mood vanished.

The security light lay in shards on the doorstep, and the door hung in the frame, half-wrenched from its hinges.

Ryan itched to rush in and take out his ire on whoever had violated his space.

Caution made him hesitate.

He didn’t know who had broken into his business. Or if they waited for him inside. Helmet in hand, he stood in the frigid silence and listened.

No sound.

He pushed the door wider and flipped the light switch, then took a careful step through the door.

The kitchen was undisturbed, as tidy as he’d left it the previous night. The same wasn’t true for his office. A kick had splintered the wood around the door’s lock and the handle was gone, torn from its fittings. Ryan braced for destruction.

He found it inside.

Overturned filing cabinets, their contents in drifts on the carpet. Every drawer on his desk wrenched open and emptied over desktop and floor. The damage was wanton and pointless because the intruders hadn’t touched the watercolour painting covering his safe.

Sweat dewed on Ryan’s neck. Not money. Not his recipes.

“The box! Damn it!”

He dropped his helmet and sprinted for the bar. The metal-bound wooden box with its cloverleaf-shaped padlock sat beside the cash register, undisturbed.

Ryan exhaled in a huff, relief making his knees wobble and his hands shake. He ran a coffeehouse, not a drinking den. In the four years since opening Top o’ the Morning, he’d never once had trouble. Break-ins and vandalism didn’t fit into his worldview.

He slid his palm over smooth wood and chilled metal, assuring himself that nothing had harmed the Box of Wishes. And before he could change his mind, he reached for his phone and called the police.

***

The wet rasp of a rough tongue across his nose and cheek jerked Ben awake. “Morris! Leave off.” He pushed the cat’s face away, grabbed the big fur ball and sat up, cradling the tabby to his chest. “Shit.”

Ben had tossed and turned for half the night. The last time he’d glanced at the clock, the green numerals had read 03:47. He must have dozed off after that and snoozed right past his wake-up call.

“Without you, I’d get the sack,” he told his purring companion.

Morris didn’t argue. He nudged his nose under Ben’s chin, urging him to do more than talk.

Ben took the hint.

He climbed out of bed, wincing as his bare feet touched the chilly wooden floor. Keith had taken half the furniture when he’d moved out, including the sheepskin rugs they’d brought back from a holiday in Yorkshire.

Ben was grateful that Morris had always been ‘his’ cat. The idea of coming home to an empty house at the end of each day didn’t appeal to him at all. He cuddled Morris closer and buried his face in the soft fur as he made for the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have let him take you. I like you too much to be without you, big boy.”

Ben set the cat on his feet and opened the cupboard where he kept the cat food. “What do you fancy for breakfast this morning? Nice tuna or a bit of dead cow?”

Morris settled beside his mat. If Ben dawdled any longer, he’d stand up on his hind legs and wave a paw. Ben loved the manoeuvre, and—in need of something to cheer him—he opened the food packet, emptied the contents into Morris’s bowl, and waited.

As if he knew what Ben expected, Morris rested one front paw on the cupboard door and stretched the other in a high five, mewing his request for breakfast.

“Aren’t you lovely?” Ben stroked the striped head and the tiny button nose before he set the plate on the mat. “See? Nice Morris breakfast. Right on time.”

His own breakfast wasn’t so easy to find. His cupboards were bare. So bare, he’d gone to bed without dinner the previous night. He needed to go shopping before he headed home, or at the very least pick up a kebab or a pizza on the way.

His stomach growled in agreement. Ben ignored it. Not having a cup of tea to start the day with was worse.

Keith had never failed to wake Ben with a cup of tea. It had been one good thing—towards the end, the only good thing—about living with him. It had also kept Ben from throwing the cheating sod out long after he should have.

Ben pushed the memories away and returned to his bedroom to get ready for the day. Finding food wasn’t difficult. His daily commute passed a supermarket, a petrol station, and a couple of coffee shops.

The real problem was finding a decent cup of tea. The stuff in the station canteen was stewed-to-death undrinkable, and he hadn’t yet sunk so low that he’d consider coffee an adequate substitute.

He added milk to his mental shopping list, mourning the loss of milk floats and the clink of bottles in the early morning air.

Christmas was a fortnight away, and the weather matched his mood. A thin layer of frost covered his car and thick clouds hung low, muting the glow from the streetlights. The damp chill bit at his exposed skin, reminding him of his time in uniform, patrolling the streets of Manchester. Cold, damp days were the quieter times on the beat. People who had the chance to stay indoors did so.

Ben had found the same pattern when he’d moved across the country to be with Keith, and when he’d switched from uniformed officer to plain clothes detective. The workload hadn’t changed—far from it—but his hours had been a little more predictable, and he had loved the work. Then Keith had left, and Ben—confidence shaken—had traded dealing with people for dealing with data. Facts had no agendas and didn’t lie.

For a while after the breakup he’d become a recluse, a loner who spent his time at work dealing with facts, and his time at home cuddling with his cat. Now the lure of facts alone was waning. People and their problems drew him once more and Ben wondered what he had on his desk that might hold his interest. The monthly crime statistics… He made a face. Finding new leads in that dreary stack of misdemeanours wasn’t likely. He usually had better luck picking up one of the longer-running cases for review. Fraud cases were intricate, with many strands to unravel. He was good at prising out new leads, so—

His phone rang.

“Hobart.”

“We’ve had a report of a break-in at a coffeehouse in Rothcote. Can you head over there and take point?”

Seemed they were short-staffed again. Or the patrols were all out dealing with other shouts. A hint of excitement warmed Ben’s mind. Hadn’t he just wished for something less predictable than facts? And Rothcote was on his way, even if skirting the town was faster than driving up the High Street and stopping at each of the four traffic lights.

“I can be there in a few minutes. What’s the address?”

***

He found Top o’ the Morning just off the High Street in a small courtyard that also housed a knitting shop, a store selling fishing rods, a hairdresser, and a furniture arcade. Festive decor brightened each shop window, and a large Christmas tree, decorated in white except for one red bauble, occupied the centre of the square.

Should he celebrate Christmas? He could buy a treat or two for Morris, wrap them, and arrange them under a tree. Or was it pathetic to—

Negative, defeatist thoughts were common after a long night spent near sleepless. Ben acknowledged them, then put them aside. He was here to work. Contemplating Christmas trees could wait.

Golden light spilled from the coffeehouse’s windows along with the enticing scent of freshly baked goods, and Ben’s stomach woke up and roared its displeasure.

Inside, the scent of warm bread twined with the aromas of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon and made his mouth water. Almost as much as the man behind the counter.

Ben stopped in his tracks. Blinked. Had he just…?

He had.

In his defence, he’d have to be blind to ignore this man.

The barista wore a dark green apron over close-fitting black jeans and a long-sleeved top. He was slight, with warm brown eyes, a mobile mouth, and shoulder-length auburn hair that he’d pulled back into a tight tail. And the mirror running the length of the wall behind the bar showed him to be just as decorative from the back as he was from the front.

“Good morning, sir,” he greeted when Ben reached the bar. “How do you like your caffeine?”

“What?”

The man gestured, lips stretching into a welcoming smile. “You’re up early and barely awake. How do you like your caffeine?”

“You reported a break-in,” Ben said. “I’m DS Hobart, Northamptonshire Police.”

The smile grew a little wider. “I knew you weren’t one of my regulars. Thank you for coming so quickly. Now, before you ask me all your questions, can I offer you breakfast?”

Ben stared longingly at the ham and cheese croissants that must have come out of the oven not long since. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t just skipped breakfast, but dinner, too. First things first, though. “Would you have tea?”

“Of course. Grab a seat. I’ll bring it right over.”

It wasn’t standard procedure for investigating burglaries, but if the owner of the coffeehouse needed to look after people to keep his composure, Ben would let him do so.

He ignored the Christmas trees dripping baubles and ribbon at each end of the long room and sat in the nook beside the unlit fireplace, imagining a roaring fire in the grate and the coffeehouse filled with an afternoon crowd, enjoying scones and jam, Danishes, and cheesecake with their tea.

It was easy to do.

Despite the stainless-steel counter and the high-tech coffee equipment behind it, the room felt warm and inviting. A space to stop in the daily rush and relax for a while.

Ben had spent much time in coffeeshops when he’d first moved to Manchester. Sat at a small table and read, baffled the baristas with requests for speciality teas, watched the other patrons and guessed at the kinds of lives they led.

Then he’d met Keith and his coffee shop outings had stopped.

Now he lived in a house with half the furnishings missing. With marks on the walls where pictures had told stories, and bookshelves that showed bare patches. He’d done nothing to the house since Keith had left. He’d stayed away from people and buried himself in work and workouts until he even forgot to go shopping for food. His home reeked of loneliness and heartache, with Morris the only bright, welcoming spot in his life. The tabby might go out for hours at a time, but he’d never desert Ben. Morris was loyal. Faithful. The way Keith hadn’t been.

“Here you are.” The barista’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The soft baritone fit with the space, as much as the Christmas lights draping the walls, the trees in the corners, or the wooden tray that held a proper teapot, a cup and saucer, and two plates. A large cheese and ham croissant lay on one, a cherry and white chocolate muffin on the other.

It was what Ben would have chosen if he’d placed an order. “You watched me,” he accused, cheeks burning.

“That’s my job.” The man slid into the seat opposite. “I’m Ryan O’Shaughnessy. I own this joint,” he said, and watched while Ben poured himself a large cup of tea, added a little milk, and raised it to his nose to inhale the fragrant steam.

“You reported a break-in,” Ben began when he’d soothed his empty stomach with the croissant and muffin and had coaxed a third cup of tea from the pot.

“I did.” Ryan’s chin rested on his folded hands. He hadn’t moved while Ben enjoyed his breakfast. “I found the back door forced when I got here at five. My office looks like a tip. And don’t worry, detective. I only peeked in from the doorway. I’ve not touched a thing.”

“You sound calmer than most burglary victims I get to see. Could you tell whether they’ve taken anything?”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Like I said, I’ve not checked. Nobody touched the cash register. I’m not sure if they even came in here. All the damage is in my office. They’ve upended my filing cabinets and turned out all the drawers in my desk. I don’t know what they were after. Not money or my recipes, I don’t think.”

“Why not?”

“I lock my recipe book in the safe along with the petty cash, and the safe appears undisturbed.”

“Your recipe book… I take it that’s valuable?”

“My most valuable asset.” He waved his hand at the furniture and equipment. “All this is insured. My recipe collection? Not so easy to replace. Though…”

“Yes?”

Ryan shrugged. “It’s a recipe book. It’s not much use to anyone but another baker. I mean… you can’t sell it or anything.”

“You’d be surprised what you can sell. Do you keep cash on the premises?”

“About two hundred in petty cash. That’s in the safe. Front of house… most people pay by card. I keep a little cash on hand for change. Fifty quid at most. If there’s more, I bank it at night.”

Ben finished his tea and closed his notebook. “May I see your office?”

“Of course.” Ryan led the way into the back of the coffeehouse to a small room that looked as if a tornado had paid a visit. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, and Ben retrieved his notebook and got to work.