by Emmy Ellis
“He deserves it.” Cassie swigged her coffee then stood. “Right, I’ve got a full day ahead of me and no chance of it letting up, so I’ll leave you be.”
She walked out, leaving Brenda staring at the chair she’d occupied. Jason held in place like that filled her mind, and she had to shut it down, get rid of the visual. She couldn’t afford to linger on what he was going through. Like she’d always said, she was loyal to whoever ran the patch, and at the moment it was Cassie. No way was Brenda going to allow herself to feel sorry for the little scrag. But a part of her did regardless, despite his brash behaviour, his ego, his know-it-all attitude. He’d been a kid once, innocent, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Lenny’s influence had turned him towards the Devil even more than Jason’s father’s treatment of him.
Blimey. Emotions were a weird bunch, weren’t they.
Chapter Six
The Barrington Life – Your Weekly
KAREN SCHOLES STEPS DOWN
Doreen Prince – All Things Crime in our Time
Sharon Barnett – Chief Editor
EMERGENCY EDITION. FEBRUARY 2021
Karen Scholes has decided to step down as our reporter. I, Doreen Prince, will be taking over. Karen has moved on from the Barrington, going farther up north to live a quieter life now she’s getting on a bit. Her children may soon follow their mother if they query Karen’s decision.
You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?
Thought so.
In other news, Zhang Wei has decided to move away, too, so he can be with his son, Jiang, in China. Once again, please don’t bombard the family with questions. Hua and Yenay have no intention of going back, so be respectful of their feelings and mind your own business. There’s no information about what will happen to The Golden Dragon on the Moor estate, but that’s not our concern anyroad because we use the Jade Garden, don’t we.
Have a nice day.
Chapter Seven
These days, DCI Robin Gorley (he’d never think of himself without that title, he’d worked so hard to get it), came to his allotment every day, in all weathers, the only exception if there was a family gathering, a wedding or the like, and then he nipped there at the end of the party, loving the late-evening silence after the noise and sheer exhaustion he experienced with so many people around him, so many voices, so much of that awful thumping and screeching they called music.
Give him classical any day. A bit of Wagner smoothed his ruffled feathers.
Peace. He just wanted a bit of peace. Was it too much to ask after a long career fighting crime? Didn’t he deserve a calmer existence, where getting up at Oh-God o’clock didn’t feature, his alarm blessedly silent, him only rolling out of bed when he wanted to?
He’d admit he missed it, the hustle and bustle, the rush he’d always got when on the search for a criminal. Everything seemed so…empty now. He was a pointless human being, with nowt better to do than sit in his shed and think.
It didn’t matter that snow now painted the ground, or that it was cold enough to freeze a witch’s tit, as his mother would have said. He dropped by the allotment for some serenity away from a wife who’d badgered him throughout his career about not being at home much, not being a ‘present father or husband’, and she still did it now, harping on and on. He’d told her once that she’d known what she’d signed up for when she’d married a copper, but clearly, she hadn’t realised the truth of that at first.
Melinda’s ranting pushed him to escape her, when all along, his retirement was supposed to be about them reconnecting, making up for the lost time he’d spent on case after case. He’d pledged that promise to her years ago to stop her from leaving him—“I swear, if you don’t give us some attention, we’re going, Robin, do you understand?”—but he’d inevitably broken it.
Or maybe she’d forced him to with her constant jibes.
This morning, never one to not make a point when she could, she’d said, “You spend just as much time away from me now as you did before you left your job. What are you doing at that bloody allotment, because it certainly isn’t growing owt at the moment bar a few fucking runner beans? Got a fancy piece on the go, have you?”
Like he would. Melinda would have his guts for garters if she found out—and she would, her friends were gossips—and besides, his downstairs equipment wasn’t working like it should nowadays, what with his age. He’d blame brewer’s droop but didn’t drink that much, years seeing the results of drunken fights outside the pubs in town putting him off, and the Viagra Melinda had suggested didn’t sit well with him.
“So you’re saying you don’t want to do it with me anymore, is that it?” she’d screeched.
And his mind had screeched back: Please, please, just be quiet.
He hadn’t verbalised his thought, instead walking out of their kitchen, his three flasks of coffee cradled to his fast-narrowing chest instead of its wide form when he’d been in his prime, coming here to sit in his little shed, his sanctuary with two pictures on a whiteboard like the one in the incident room, names written down and red arrows pointing to clues—well, supposition, suspicions he’d had back in the day but hadn’t said them out loud regarding a couple of cases that still bothered him.
The small heater warmed his toes, the aroma of gas from the cannister tainting the air, and he held a coffee from one of his flasks. He always made enough to last him for hours, plus brought a packed lunch along, although he hadn’t had time to make that today. Melinda had started on him as he’d twisted the cup on the third flask, and he’d legged it to get away from her complaints. Still, Gregg’s had been open, and he’d treated himself to some sausage rolls and a couple of glazed ring doughnuts. That’d see him right.
What he hadn’t told his wife was that certain cases still haunted him, ones he’d never been able to solve—or one in particular he hadn’t been allowed to. She’d go mad if he admitted he thought about them: “God, just let it go, Robin!” Despite his desire for peace, he wished he was still at work, sitting at a desk going over old crimes, desperate to find whoever had remained elusive, especially now Lenny Grafton was dead. One case had always concerned him, the disappearance then murder of Jessica Wilson, a three-year-old belonging to Joe and Lou, the farmers out at Handel.
There had been rumours that Lenny had dealt with the killer. Rumours. Who was Robin kidding? He knew full well Lenny had murdered The Mechanic, and Robin had taken a backhander and risked his job to hand over Jess’ wellies and raincoat out of the evidence store—stealing it, for fuck’s sake, a copper turned rogue, and it had left more than a rancid taste in his mouth.
Robin had shit bricks, worrying every day since that he’d get caught for it, reminding himself there hadn’t been CCTV in the store back then to point the finger at him, but he’d been frightened of Lenny more than any camera. The man had been a right mad bastard, and Robin hadn’t wanted to die by his hand—or that Marlene woman’s. He’d tried to work out who she was, find her, but that name had to be a fake one. Surprisingly, no residents in town were called Marlene.
The holiday in Tenerife, paid for in cash with the bribe money, hadn’t been as enjoyable as Robin had hoped. He’d thought time away would erase what he’d done, bring him and Melinda closer, but he’d been grumpy and out of sorts, the constant reminder that the holiday was paid for with ill-gotten gains turning the array of cocktails sour on his tongue, the good food curdling in his belly, the laughter of his wife and children somehow exacerbating his guilt-drenched emotions.
With Lenny having his heart attack and dying recently, Robin had breathed a massive sigh of relief—awful, absolutely awful to be glad someone was dead, but there you have it. Robin was free now, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped thinking about Jess, or how he’d fobbed her mother off that time—the unpleasantness of that gave him nightmares, the woman coming after him in his dreams, begging him to find a clue, no matter how small, so they could catch the bastards. As far as he was aware, no one else knew what he’d done, and the knowledge
had died with the former patch leader. Still, Robin shouldn’t have taken Lenny’s word for it that The Mechanic was responsible, nor should he have urged his superior to shut the case down, as per Lenny’s instructions, Robin’s reasoning being there had never been any leads apart from the white van, the person in the back, and the man in a balaclava wielding a firearm, and those had turned into dead ends.
Rear Van Man, as Robin thought of him, was still at large. Lenny had never approached Robin with information to the contrary, and Robin had scoured each The Life for hidden messages, ones Lenny had told Karen Scholes to write, but nowt had stood out. Someone out there still had to pay for their part in what had happened to Jess, but it wasn’t Robin’s responsibility anymore, and when it had been, he’d shushed it up through fear of Lenny turning nasty on him.
Or on Melinda and the children.
There was no way he could have explained things to Lou, therefore, he’d waved her concerns away as if they didn’t matter, crippling himself with remorse over it at the time and every day since.
There was something else his wife wasn’t aware of. That he’d worked so hard, gone out to cover shit up for Lenny off shift, so she wasn’t killed, so their kids didn’t meet Marlene. How could he tell her, though? She thought he was a true copper, blue running through his veins, not one as bent as a nine-bob note.
Ever since Jess’ case had been closed, Robin had avoided Lou Wilson as much as he could after that cringe-inducing meeting where she’d wanted answers. The woman was broken yet determined, and the times she’d looked at him in The Donny once Jess had been laid to rest, well, it had scored a slice in his heart, and he’d wanted to tell her: “See that man you’re with, the one paying for all the drinks? Lenny fucking Grafton? He stopped me looking for Jess. The problem lies with him, not me.”
There was no doubt about it—she was right; her silent stare of reproach before she’d left the interview room that final time was right. He’d failed her, failed that child, and Joe. Himself. And all because he feared Lenny Grafton, feared the man telling the superintendent about what Robin had done with that evidence, feared for his family’s lives.
So, Melinda rambling on at him… It was nowt compared to the remorse prodding him more and more each day. That was the problem with retiring. You had more time to think, your mind less full of cases, and it always strayed to what he should have done—ploughing on to find Rear Van Man despite Lenny telling him to ‘back the fuck off or you’ll regret it’.
Jess’ ghost haunted him. He swore he saw her every so often, always three years old, always in that bloody rainbow coat and those pink wellies. She appeared in the market, weaving between the stalls, a bag of sweets clutched tight—Jazzles. In The Donny, perched on a barstool, a packet of cheese and onion Walkers in her hand. In the Jade Garden, stretching her chubby mitts up to the counter to take a lollipop from Li Jun, always a pink one. And every time, no matter where she was, she glanced over her shoulder at Robin and frowned, her stare as reproachful as her mother’s.
That frown cut him to the bone: You didn’t find me in time. You listened to Uncle Lenny.
Robin placed his cup down and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Dear God…”
He took a shuddering deep breath and stood from his deckchair, his back clicking along with his knees. Sixty-odd but feeling eighty. He folded the chair and leant it against the wall. Shuffled to look out of the little dusty window.
Barney Lipton, a seventy-something and sprightlier than Robin, his bald head covered by a red beanie (complete with a white bobble on top, one his wife had knitted for him), was over the way in his plastic-paned greenhouse, tending to the plants he managed to keep alive even in winter. He had a knack with growing, did Barney, installing a heating system in there that mimicked good weather, the warmth of the sun. He passed runner beans to Robin every now and then, who gave them to Melinda, never putting her straight that he hadn’t grown them.
Another lie to add to his long list.
A tap on the shed door startled him—it was rare for anyone to come here, apart from other gardeners, and Barney was the only one around at the minute. Robin remained where he was, ignoring the intrusion into his retrospective thoughts. Barney glanced over. His eyes widened, and he dipped his head and tugged at a length of bamboo cane as if he didn’t want owt to do with the person who’d come calling.
Odd. Unless it was that prat from the council, the one who’d warned them the allotment might be closed down. Perkins, his name was. A jobsworth.
Another knock, and Robin sighed. For Pete’s sake, not only did his mind and his wife insist on keeping him from peace, a visitor did as well. He went to draw the chain across—you couldn’t be too careful, and he should know, being an ex-copper, so he’d put one on a while back—then changed his mind about undoing it. Better to keep it there and face whoever it was through the gap.
Speaking to them meant letting all the heat out, and he tsked at that.
He opened the door as much as it could go, two to three inches, and his heart sank, skipping a beat or five, his tummy flipping. Lou Wilson stood there, her eyes nowt like they usually were (sad and lifeless when she wasn’t looking at him or venomous with hatred for him when she was). Today they held anger, and he reckoned it glinted, warning him this wasn’t a nice and friendly social visit. When would that ever be true, though? She detested him, and he couldn’t blame her.
Shit.
“Yes?” he said, annoyed his voice shook.
As far as she was aware, he was beyond reproach, so why had she come?
She straightened her sparrow shoulders. “Let me in. I want a word, and it’s been a long time coming.”
Fuck, had she found out it was him who’d suppressed the case? He was sure he’d worded it in their meeting so it was ambiguous as to who’d pushed to close it down. Had DC Simon Knight and DS Lisa Codderidge blabbed to her? Lisa, definitely, because she’d been well upset at the time. Now there was no fear of Robin reprimanding them, now he wasn’t their superior, they might well have spoken to Lou. Thick as thieves, those two, and having a long-standing affair to boot.
You couldn’t trust anyone these days, could you.
They hadn’t known why he’d had to get the case closed, just that he’d done it, but it stood out a mile it had been his idea. They hadn’t been best pleased. A waste of all that hard work, they’d said, plus there was letting the kidnap accomplice get away with it, allowing him to do it again to some other kiddie.
“What’s the problem, Lou?” He used his police voice, the one that had him sounding authoritative, in control, when really, inside he was losing it.
“You know damn well what the problem is.”
Lou stepped away from the gap and, oh God, Francis Grafton appeared. Had Lenny told her about Robin’s part in Jess’ case and she’d kept quiet? Now he was dead, had she decided to spill the beans to her friend, relieved to relinquish the burden?
“Open up,” Francis said, her eyes narrowed, no sign of grief about her. Anyone would think her husband was still alive the way she glared at Robin.
She’d always been all-business, though. Always stoic beside her husband. Seemed his death hadn’t changed her.
Robin swallowed and took the chain away, pulling the door wider. Francis and Lou stepped inside, cramping the place up and, further adding to the claustrophobia, Cassie entered.
Robin groaned. He’d heard the rumours through Melinda about how this young woman had taken over the estate with her brand of warped reasoning. Lenny was one thing, a force to be reckoned with, but Cassie was apparently a tornado, whipping up a tsunami that soaked the town.
“You may well moan,” Lou said. “Because the past has caught up with you, fucker.”
Chapter Eight
Lou’s weapon sat in her bag, which she’d strapped diagonally over her torso to save it swinging around with what she had in mind. She’d taken a leaf out of Cassie’s book and created her own murder tool this morning while her n
ephew, Ben, mucked the pigs out instead of her husband.
Joe worked part-time at the meat factory again now, and while today wasn’t one of his shifts, the recently appointed newer manager, Marcus James, had phoned in sick, something about his teenager bringing home the lurgy from sixth form. Joe had to go in, of course he did, and Ben had come to take over his chores, meaning he’d lost his day off.
It suited Lou down to the ground. Fate couldn’t have helped her out more if it’d tried. She hoped Marcus was off for longer, say a week, then she could get the coppers done over with Joe right out of the way, none the wiser. She’d be home in time today to cook dinner—they’d driven here at ten a.m.—so plenty of hours left to mince Gorley. Or set fire to him like Cassie wanted. Whatever happened, so long as he was dead by the end of it, Lou didn’t care. They’d come here via the outskirts, no cameras to catch their images or Cassie’s stolen car with the fake plates, no people other than Barney Lipton tending to his plants.
Ben, God bless him, wasn’t the cleverest of souls, so Lou swanning off during the day, well, he wouldn’t take much notice, his mind full of those Xbox games he liked to play well into the night. All right, maybe he’d wonder why she’d suddenly taken to leaving the farm when she usually remained there by choice, only venturing out when Joe urged her, but she doubted he’d dwell on it.
“It’s not good for you, hiding out here all the time. Let’s go and have a bevvy at The Donny.” Joe said that every now and then, concerned she remained inside too much.
And he was right. Although it was a chore to leave the farm, to get ready and plaster on a fake smile, she felt marginally better once she was away from it.
Her memories went with her, though.
She snapped out of her thoughts and crowded Gorley, Francis and Cassie at her back. Their presence bolstered the steel in her spine, giving her the extra courage to proceed.
