The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  If so, why?

  “Don’t get involved, you daft cow,” she muttered and slid her burner into her bra; a tight fit, but she couldn’t leave it lying around now Sharon was here.

  Once, Brenda had caught her rooting through her knicker drawer, claiming she was after toilet roll when she’d gone upstairs for a wee. An unlikely story, because who the fuck kept loo roll in with their undies? Sharon had been snooping, simple as that, and Brenda suspected Karen had told Sharon about fleecing the old men and she was looking for money. Karen said no way, but Brenda’s suspicions wouldn’t go quiet.

  In the kitchen, she took two mugs off the wooden tree and poured coffee from her carafe. Added whitener and sugar. Handed Sharon one. “Cassie hasn’t got any idea what’s happened, so if anyone asks, that’s your answer.”

  “Is that the true answer, though?” Sharon sipped. “Cheers for this, by the way. I’ve had a few vodkas since I last saw you.”

  “Shock, I assume.”

  Sharon nodded.

  Brenda sighed. “If Cassie says it’s nowt to do with her, who are we to question it? I mean, come on, are you going to confront her, demand answers?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Not bloody likely. If she’s going after coppers, she’ll have good reason. I’m keeping my nose out of it and my mouth shut.”

  “Hmm, best you do.”

  Brenda ought to do the same but was desperate to know what was going on. Maybe Cassie would confide in her at some point. They’d got closer lately. Lenny used to tell Brenda things, so maybe his daughter would follow in his footsteps. Until then, Brenda would keep her nose out and her head down.

  The thought of having an eight-inch nail put through her leg kind of helped her make that decision.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I need to come in.”

  Doreen stared at Cassie on her doorstep. The woman’s wavy red hair was gone, in its place a corn-coloured wig with little plaits all over it. Oversized black sunglasses covered her creepy blue eyes—creepy to Doreen anyroad, but she was sure some people thought them beautiful, and she knew why they unnerved her so much, eyes from the past, eyes she’d rather forget. Cassie’s baggy clothing (a grey tracksuit more in line with the young kids on the estate, not something Doreen thought was flattering at all) hung off her slender frame. If Cassie hadn’t spoken, she wouldn’t have known it was her. Was this how she dressed when she posted Doreen’s wages through the letterbox late at night? Must be; she’d said she’d be in disguise.

  “Right, yes, duck.” Doreen stepped back. “I’m just writing The Life as it happens. I’ve got to get in touch with Sharon to see if she’s aware of Karen’s stall bookings for the February Fayre—you know, whether all the slots are filled. Should I take over that or leave it to Sharon?” She waited against the hallway wall while Cassie closed the door.

  “Sharon can do it. I’ll message her now. It’ll give her something to focus on since her pal’s copped it.”

  Cassie took her phone out and thumbed a message. Doreen thought about The Life, what she’d had to write in it versus what had really happened. Doreen had killed Karen by slicing her throat. No one must know. She couldn’t bear for her Harry to find out. He’d stop seeing her, she was convinced of that.

  “My crew have been to Karen’s and emptied the place, so there’s the computer Dad gave her going spare. I’ll have it brought round here for you before they go off and dump her other shit.” She sent another message. “There might be info on there about the Fayre. You can email it to Sharon.”

  “Oh, that’ll be right handy, thanks. I’ve got an ancient laptop, takes forever to fire up, so having Karen’s proper computer will help. I’ll buy a little desk and stick it in the spare room. Get one of them fancy chairs that help your back.” Excited at the prospect of feeling important in her own little office, having a purpose in life other than working part-time at the betting shop and being Cassie’s ears, Doreen wandered to the kitchen, wondering why on earth Cassie was in that get-up if she’d come to tell her something else needed putting in The Life. Assuming that was why she was here. It could be for any number of reasons since Doreen had shared the act of killing with the woman. They were allies now, Cassie having something concrete over Doreen, so perhaps this little scenario was for rules to be reestablished. The disguise was weird and unnecessary in Doreen’s opinion, but there you go, what she thought didn’t matter.

  She prodded the kettle button and got busy with cups, choosing her best ones, remembering the day Cassie had come here to tell Doreen about her son, Richie, being sent to Marlene. Cassie had turned her nose up, and Doreen swore it was about her old bloody cups. She’d thought of her as a snooty bitch until recently.

  Cassie walked in, sunglasses on top of her head and, instead of sitting at the table, she came to stand beside Doreen and propped her hip against a cupboard, her elbow on the worktop.

  “Fuck me, you look fair worn out—if you don’t mine me saying, like,” Doreen said. “I’ll admit I’m knackered, what with everything that went on—you know, Karen and Zhang Wei—but you need to get back to bed, lass.”

  “I was in bed, but Brenda phoned. Shit, Doreen, there’s a mess I have to clean up, and I’m not sure I’m up to it. Mam said we have certain police in our pocket, but one of them has spilt some beans.”

  Bloody hell, Cassie unsure? Cassie talking to her about it and not Francis? That was a turn up for the books and no mistake, but Doreen was well glad about it. For this young woman to confide in her, well, it meant she trusted her, didn’t it? That they were friends?

  Or is this a test?

  That threw cold water on her chuffed-as-fuck fire, and Doreen sobered. “You know you can talk to me and I won’t blab, don’t you? By killing Karen, I proved I’m with you, and I still am. Nowt will pass my lips, whatever you have to tell me. I’m not stupid enough to repeat what you say, unless you tell me to say it. Come on, get it out. What’s the matter, duck?”

  Cassie chewed on her bottom lip for a few seconds, tension radiating off her. “How much do you trust Lou?”

  Christ, Doreen hadn’t expected that. “She’s champion, she is. Kept her mouth shut about certain things for years. We did something together then kept apart as much as we could, made out we’d gone in different directions in life so no one would suspect owt. Never once have I had any reason to doubt her.”

  Cassie sighed. Seemed to battle with whether to confess whatever was on her mind. “She killed Mr Plod after we’d done Karen over. I got home, and she had him in her fucking boot. She ran over him at the factory. His head popped and everything, bits of brain coming out.”

  Doreen’s legs went all funny at the thought of that, plus… Oh, for the love of God. Lou had gone through with her mad idea after all. Why now, after all these years? She’d promised Doreen she wouldn’t kill another person, said she’d behave, especially as Doreen had quizzed her about Superintendent Black. He’d fallen into the canal, well suss, and Lou had sworn it wasn’t her pushing him in. Doreen had other ideas about that, but Lou had persisted with her story: Black had got drunk in The Donny, celebrating the end of a case, and wandered too close to the edge.

  What the hell was she playing at?

  “Um…right.” Doreen staggered over to a chair and sat. She waved at the kettle. “Can you…? Flippin’ ’eck, I feel sick.”

  Cassie poured steaming water into the cups, Doreen sucking in lungfuls of air to stop hyperventilating, telling herself she’d known this would happen, despite Lou’s assurances, so why was she surprised?

  Because she promised, and I thought she meant it.

  Cassie sniffed. “That’s not all. She got me and Mam roped into killing DCI Gorley. Well, ex-DCI, but you know what I mean. We went to see him this morning, and she used this thing on him she’d made. Wood with loads of nails sticking out. She stabbed his arm, cheek, and neck with it. I set fire to his shed on the allotment.”

  “Oh heck, Melinda, his wife, she won’t keep her mouth s
hut if you’re thinking of sending her one of them anonymous letters Lenny used to post to people after he’d offed someone. She’s got a gob on her and then some. No matter whether you threaten her with disappearing, she’ll shout it to the rooftops. She’ll think Gorley’s old colleagues will keep her safe from you.”

  Cassie poured milk. “I’m not contacting her. These copper deaths won’t be publicly down to me, and that’s why I’m here—along with talking about it to you, because Mam keeps telling me I have to stay strong, I needed to tell someone this is getting to me. How can I stay strong all the time? I’ve dealt with loads since Dad died, one thing after another, all big, all a lot to handle. I need you to write something in The Life, us being upset about the pig deaths, making it clear it isn’t a Grafton job but not saying that outright.”

  Cassie finished making the drinks and brought them over. She passed Doreen hers and sat, sighing for so long Doreen had half a mind to brace herself for the girl passing out. Thankfully, Cassie was all right, so Doreen reached over and patted her hand.

  “Lou told me about her plans years ago.” Doreen’s mind skipped back to a night in the pub, where they’d always said hello in passing but continued to keep their distance.

  A short while after they’d broken the law, Doreen had moved out of their shared house, back to her childhood home, unable to stand what she’d done, what Lou had done. They’d been young, just eighteen and starting out alone, and it had all gone so horribly wrong.

  “A couple of weeks after Jess was buried, we had a chat. I’d gone to the toilet in The Donny,” she said, “and Lou was in there, a bit pissed up. Weaving, slurring, that sort of thing. She says to me, ‘Dor, I’m going to be the piggy farmer’. And I thought that was well odd, seeing as she already was, what with Handel. Anyroad, she says, ‘I’m going to kill them, all those who didn’t save my Jess.’ I told her not to, that messing with the police wasn’t a good idea, and in the end, she swore to me she wouldn’t. Then Superintendent Black drowned, and it just seemed too much of a coincidence for it not to have been her.”

  “Well, it must have got too much for her, because she followed Bob to the factory and ran him over on our property, for God’s sake. Then she got Mam involved to get rid of the patrol car—close to the bloody squat.”

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Because I have Jason bastard Shepherd in there, haven’t I. Got him to meet me last night after you’d gone home. I wanted him to admit he’s been plotting to drug me and Mam, take over the patch. He didn’t, so I shot him in the leg with my nail gun.”

  “Oh my sodding days.” Doreen flapped a hand in front of her to cool her overheating face. “This is getting worse by the minute.”

  “Sorry to put all this on you, Dor, but I see you differently now, someone to turn to. Mam seems to think I can keep going without any emotions involved. Dad drummed it into me to keep myself hardened, and I was doing so well until Brenda rang me.”

  “What did Brenda want?”

  “Sharon went round hers to say Bob and Gorley have been on the news. Some bloody copper leaked it to the press that Bob was missing in suspicious circumstances, yet Mam’s police contact assured her he was hushing it up. I don’t need fingers pointing our way. If coppers get sent to the factory, those forensic ones, and Marlene is tested…”

  Doreen’s head lightened, and she swallowed the saliva that flooded her mouth. “We don’t need that.” She didn’t need that. She’d been there, in that effing side room with Marlene. Despite it being cleaned, the police might find something and… “Get rid of the leak.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that, especially with it being an officer and how she’d told Lou not to bother, but whoever was pouring oil on troubled waters, ready to light it then sit back and watch things burn, could cause a hell of a lot of hassle.

  “I thought the same, I just needed a different perspective to see if it was the right thing to do.” Cassie tugged at a plait. “Not the right thing, but you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, but holes need to be plugged. Lenny would want you to do it.”

  “That’s the problem half the time, Dor. I’m listening to Lenny’s tune, even when he isn’t alive to play it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Barrington Life – Your Weekly

  FEBRUARY FAYRE AND POLICE NEWS

  Doreen Prince – All Things Crime in our Time

  Sharon Barnett – Chief Editor

  FEBRUARY 2020

  As you’re probably aware by now, two police officers from our town have been on the news. PC Bob Holworth went missing on the road out to Worksop, his car seemingly vanishing, and ex-DCI Robin Gorley was burnt inside his shed. This is tragic, and Cassie has asked me to urge you all to be respectful of the coppers’ families during this terrible time. Plus, she’d like us to send flowers to Robin’s funeral, so a collection box will be on Sharon’s face-painting stall at the Fayre. You can pop your small change in there, or even a fiver if you’re feeling generous. Cassie has started the pot up with two hundred pounds. Francis has offered two thousand towards Robin’s funeral costs. This will help Melinda Gorley out no end.

  Now, while we’re not fans of pigs, we don’t condone one of them being torched, do we, so please, if you know owt, go to the police station and let them know. We live in sad times if people are resorting to murdering those who try to keep us safe, and as for Bob going walkabouts, that’s really strange, concerning, so the sooner he comes home the better.

  In other news, there’s one stall left at the February Fayre this coming weekend (here’s hoping the snow buggers off by then). As you know, proceeds from stall rentals are going to The Lenny Grafton Homeless Fund, a charity he set up to help those without housing in our town. There were still a couple of people on the streets as of this morning, no high-rise flats vacant for them, but Francis has paid for them to stay in Vera’s B&B for now. A round of applause for that woman! She’s already got the ball rolling on buying a couple of houses in Salway Street and turning them into bedsits for those who may find themselves without a place to call home in the future. Your money will help buy things like beds and such.

  Also, don’t forget to show up at the Fayre and enter the competition to win the all-inclusive holiday in Spain, donated by Cassie. Money raised by buying a ticket for a quid will also go to the homeless project.

  I for one am proud to live on the Barrington with people like Francis and Cassie ensuring things get done. While Robin’s death and Bob’s disappearance are sad events, let’s remember who we are and how we come together in a crisis. If we join as one, we can buy a carpet of flowers for Robin’s graveside.

  RIP.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eighteen-year-old Doreen and Lou left The Donny, staggering along the road towards their home on the Barrington. They both lived in the same house, renting, sharing the kitchen and bathroom, their other housemate, Janine, away on holiday in Cornwall. It had felt so good to leave their respective childhood places, branching out. Exciting, too. They were free of parental constraints, allowed to do whatever they liked, or it seemed that way anyroad.

  Summer had gifted the town with lots of sunshine this year, the air cooling—only a tad, mind—darkness fully eclipsing the lingering daylight. Doreen’s nine-till-five job at the bookies had been a Godsend, coming right at the time she’d wanted to leave home. Frederick, the owner, was a friend of her dad’s. Doreen wasn’t daft. Dad would have put in a good word for her, then Frederick had made out he was casually chatting to her in the pub about needing an assistant, and: “Oh, so you need a job? Well then, that’s settled. If you want it, that is.”

  Lou worked in Betty’s Blooms, selling flowers, training on the job to become a florist. She had plans to run her own shop, so she’d said, and life was on the up. Doreen didn’t like Betty; the battle-axe had told her off plenty of times over the years, like she had the bloody right. Doreen didn’t usually carry slights over from childhood,
but with Betty she made an exception. The older woman’s tongue was as sharp as her pruning shears, and she had the thorns of the roses she sold an’ all. Prickly cow.

  They walked farther onto the estate, arms linked, Lou humming out of tune, Doreen recalling the conversation they’d had earlier about some bloke coming into Blooms, acting weird towards Lou. She’d said he kept buying bouquets then handing them back to her after paying, saying stuff like: “You deserve every flower in this shop. Fancy going for a drink?”

  Lou always refused, said he gave her the creeps with his staring bright-blue eyes, and had even told Betty she felt harassed. The thing was, Betty said the man was only being romantic and Lou ought to be grateful she was getting any attention.

  That wasn’t right—rude, in fact, like Lou wasn’t pretty enough to have a man treating her that way—and Doreen had offered to go right up to Betty perched on the barstool sipping her Pernod and black, telling her to her face she should have her employee’s bests interests at heart, but Lou wasn’t having any of it. Instead, Doreen had given Betty evil stares a lot of the night, the hag giving them right back. God.

  “I reckon that fella’s got a screw loose,” Doreen said now, her little handbag bumping her hip with each step. “You know, the one who buys you flowers.”

  Lou tripped on nowt, said, “Whoopsie daisy!”, and giggled. “Yeah, he’s a bit much. I’ve told him I don’t want to go for a drink umpteen times now—like, a couple of times per visit—but he won’t listen. Maybe I should tell him I fancy the pants off Joe Wilson. Then again, no. He might tell Joe, and I’d be right embarrassed, because Joe doesn’t know how I feel.”