The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  “Mam,” Cassie whispered. “Help me get her off.”

  Mam used her bat and hit Lou’s weapon arm enough to hurt but not to break any bones. Lou spun around, the nail block raised, stepping farther into the edge of the light. One side of the balaclava was somewhat visible. Blood that appeared black had splashed onto the skin around Lou’s eye.

  “Don’t you fucking dare come at me with that,” Mam said. “Finish her off, for God’s sake. We need to go.”

  Cassie glanced over at the door. It wouldn’t be long, and someone would try to leave so they could have a fag, and shit would hit the fan once they couldn’t get outside. She turned to Lou, who’d moved back to a silent Codderidge, and Cassie’s monster smiled as the twenty-three nails sank into the officer’s neck.

  * * * *

  Coffee cake and champagne were an odd combination, the different tastes creating a revolution on Cassie’s tongue, both fighting to win the war. She abandoned the champagne—she’d be driving again anyroad—and finished the cake, wishing she didn’t have to go to the squat and burn the boilersuits, balaclavas, and gloves, not to mention the piece of wood and the baseball bats (the latter with blood on them, Mam’s coated more than Cassie’s from where she’d staved the front of Knight’s head in, and Lou had sawn them into smaller pieces in the shed not five minutes after they’d got back). Cassie had run the saw through the dishwasher because of the blood transfer on the teeth.

  She’d managed another nap prior to Lou arriving after dinner but was lethargic from not only being tired but the drab and heavy feeling she always got once an adrenaline rush wore off. She was in need of a full night’s sleep, but that wasn’t on the agenda just yet.

  Lou’s eyes had that mad gleam in them, and she necked back her champers. “Jess is happy.”

  Cassie didn’t know what to say so glanced at Mam who shrugged.

  “She’s giggling like she did in Gorley’s shed.” Lou poured more alcohol. “Everything’s better now.”

  “Good,” Mam said. “You can finally move on.”

  “Never. Not when you have a stalker on your mind.”

  Cassie slumped. For fuck’s sake, was there more to deal with? Were they going to have to hold Lou’s hand again? “Stalker?”

  Lou’s eyes deadened. “What?”

  Mam frowned. “You said you had a stalker.”

  “Did I?” Lou blushed and darted her eyes left then right. “Um, well, I don’t know why I said that. Just ignore me.” She gulped more champagne, flustered, appearing guilty.

  Why?

  Mam didn’t look too honest either, the dawning of a memory transferring to her face in the form of a frown.

  Cassie swallowed the last piece of her cake and stood. That little conversation had unsettled and annoyed her. Lou might be Mam’s friend, but she was proving to be a pest they didn’t need. Why mention a stalker if she didn’t have one? What did Mam know that Cassie didn’t? Who was the stalker?

  Fuck it. If those to want to hide shit, they can get on with it. “I’m going to the squat.”

  The black bag of clothes and wood sat by the front door (they’d all stripped and showered). Lou had borrowed some of Mam’s leggings and a top, just in case any blood had seeped through her boilersuit, and she’d said she’d be telling Joe she’d got wet by lying in the back garden and creating an angel in the snow for Jess, drunkenness pushing her to do it. Personally, Cassie felt that particular lie was sick, but Lou had smiled, her eyes vacant where she was off in her head again. How she’d explain not getting her clothes back was anyone’s guess, but like Cassie had already thought, they couldn’t help the nutbag with everything.

  “So soon?” Mam asked.

  “Yes, I need some fresh air.” What Cassie didn’t say was: I’m sick of Lou, can’t stand to look at her. She’s changed, getting worse. Needs help. “Don’t wait up.”

  Depending on how she felt once the cold had woken her up again, she might kill Jason, get him sorted and out of her hair once and for all. Then, if the residents behaved, she might have a few days where nowt happened.

  That’s a joke.

  With the February Fayre coming up, a large crowd forming, there was bound to be some aggro she’d need to step in to break up. Alcohol pushed people to do stupid things, and arguments would break out, slights from years ago dredged up:

  What about that time you spilt beer on me in The Donny?

  What? That was yonks ago. What about when you punched my kid for picking one of your missus’ flowers?

  Fuck me, talk about holding a grudge.

  Says you who’s still naffed off about a fucking pint. I bought you another one, didn’t I?

  I think you’ll find you didn’t, pal.

  Must be someone else I’m thinking of then.

  She left the kitchen, grabbed the clothes bag, and went out to the car. The scrappy was dealing with the other one used tonight, stolen for her by her trusty little thief, and she’d slipped him and the scrappy a bonus. Money was a surefire way to buy silence, but she didn’t need to hand them extra: the men had never given her any reason to question or mistrust them. She’d done it out of appreciation.

  The drive to the squat was easier than before, the middle of the road clear of snow, although the verges and surrounding fields still had a quilt over them, and some white clung to hedge tops in marshmallow clumps. She had her weapon in her briefcase in the boot and considered using it on Jason again to reopen all those hardened face wounds, but something else came to mind to finish him off, and that was not only more satisfying but in tune with farming the piggies out.

  Jason was a pig, just a different kind. A traitor, someone who’d admitted what he’d planned, therefore she had proof. What did Lou have except suspicions that the officers hadn’t tried hard enough to find Jess? Lou had based this mission on her feelings, on what she thought the police had been thinking, and Cassie now realised she should never have agreed to join the bacon hunt.

  She’d admit that Mam backing Lou up had swayed her, plus Mam would have helped her whether Cassie was in on it or not. Funny how your parent still influenced you, regardless of whether you were an adult. She’d trusted Mam’s judgement, but it had been foolhardy to put themselves in danger, especially on the Moor. While she was confident the car, the false plates, and their disguises would make things incredibly difficult for the police to track them, there was always the chance they’d get caught.

  Not every pig was in their pay.

  She sighed and turned into the squat’s driveway, again parking around the back. The snow hadn’t thinned out here, the front and rear gardens as thick as they’d been before, although a trodden-down patch by the kitchen door proved Jimmy had been coming out for his ciggies, hopefully before she’d warned him to remain inside. Perhaps by some unconscious decision, he hadn’t tossed the butts. In the light of her headlamps, no telltale signs of them spearing holes in the snow were evident.

  She’d made the right choice choosing him, just needed to up his confidence, get him to believe in himself. And maybe he’d eventually become used to violence.

  Cassie: I’m here.

  Jimmy: Okay. Kitchen again.

  She got out and collected what she needed from the boot. Checking the area, she walked down the side of the building, glad she’d put her boots on. The top layer of snow crackled then crumped beneath her feet as she flattened it, and it reminded her of Dad taking her up a big hill once, and they’d rolled down the snow to the bottom.

  Her eyes stung. Was Yenay having similar thoughts, memories colliding in her head of Zhang Wei and the fun they must have had, what they could still have had if Mam hadn’t shot him, if he hadn’t pushed it and found himself at the end of Cassie’s and her mother’s frayed tethers?

  I can’t change it. Move on.

  She entered the squat and locked up behind her, dumping one item in the living room on the bookshelf, pausing at the eerie sensation she was being watched. Cassie turned to the back wall. Jason was
awake, and he stared at her, so still she thought he was dead. She walked over to him and kicked his nailed leg.

  He screamed.

  Not dead then.

  She strutted out, closing the door and taking the black bag into the kitchen. Jimmy stood by the kettle again, a cup of something already made, an empty mug beside it, one he must have got out when she’d texted. A good man, was Jimmy.

  “You have no idea how much I need that drink,” she said and moved to the furnace. Repeating her actions like she had with Bob’s clothes, she set about feeding the fire.

  “Bad day?” he asked.

  “Depends on your perspective. Some would say it was a brilliant day, things getting done. Me? Not so sure.” She couldn’t divulge more than that. Wished she had a friend she could trust so much that she could chat about her weird life, although Doreen was fast becoming someone she wanted to confide in. Maybe Jimmy would become one of those people, too.

  “Want to talk?” He smiled.

  “I’d love to, but while I trust you, I don’t trust you enough.”

  “I get it.”

  She appreciated him not pushing it, either because he was too scared to, or he was genuinely not that kind of bloke.

  “I won’t let you down,” he said. “I’ll prove it an’ all.”

  “It’ll take time.” She threw the last piece of wood in the flames.

  “Yeah.”

  She closed the furnace door, hadn’t cared whether Jimmy copped any eyeful. Before, she’d wanted to hide Bob’s uniform, needing to keep Mr Plod’s death quiet, but now…now she’d made the decision it was okay to have the bodies out in the open, and a twinge of regret tweaked in her chest.

  Too late to turn the clock back.

  “Own your mistakes,” Dad whispered in her head.

  What, like you owned yours? Like fuck, did you. You hid them from us.

  She huffed at that, the cheek of it, and Jimmy stared at her as if he’d done something wrong, worrying a pimple with his fingertip.

  “It’s not you I’m snorting about, just something I was thinking of.” She took the coffee from him, leaning on one of the cupboards. Funny how she’d picked the same spot to stand as before. Mind, there weren’t many places she could rest her backside in this place. Mam had an old table and chair set in the garage, a plastic one for the patio. Maybe Cassie would bring them here.

  Jimmy picked the top off of a spot and winced.

  Cassie had to say something. “The last thing I want to do is offend you, because you’re a decent bloke, but I’m saying this out of concern. Can’t you go to the doctor about those? It seems more of a problem than general acne. Get some steroid cream or whatever for them.”

  Jimmy seemed to have a light-bulb moment. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Get it sorted. You’ll feel better once you have.” She patted his shoulder, the only sign of affection she was prepared to give, plus her old self felt guilty for bringing up something he was clearly embarrassed about. Once his face was healed, she reckoned his self-confidence would grow. She needed him stronger, with a bit of backbone to him. “How’s he been?” She jerked her head in the direction of the living room, getting ready for the bad—“good,” her monster whispered—stuff.

  “Fucking weird.” Jimmy turned his back to the blind-down window, folded his arms, and leant on the unit beside the gap where a white-goods appliance would have stood. “He woke up and just stared. Like, I know he can’t help it because of what you did to his eyelids, but Christ, it freaked me out. That’s why I came in here to make a cuppa, to get away from him. There’s only so long I can stand looking at him, being in the same room as him.”

  I know the feeling. It was the same with Lou.

  “And,” Jimmy went on, “to think I was scared of him that night you came to my flat. He showed me his gun, you know; it was in a holster. Now, he’s just pitiful, no one to be frightened of at all. The tables have turned, because now I’m the one with the gun.”

  Was Jimmy saying he was glad he was the scary one now? It sounded promising. She’d make a hardman out of him yet.

  Cassie got a flash of Jason’s ruined face in her mind. “Hmm, he is a bit of a state, and I told him off about the gun business, he should never have done that. Anyroad, I’ve decided he’ll be dead tonight, so you won’t have to be here anymore. Well, not once we’ve removed the body.”

  Jimmy’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Cassie got there first.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll treat this as if you’ve killed him and give you the twenty grand.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Much as I like you, Jim, no thanks.”

  He laughed and reached for his drink. “I didn’t mean… Shirl would kill me if I touched you like that.”

  “So would I.”

  They chuckled for a bit, and it was good to release some tension, good he’d taken what she’d said as banter. Laughter was apparently the best medicine, and whoever had originally said it, they could be onto something. Cassie didn’t have much to laugh about, though, or maybe she wasn’t looking hard enough, trying hard enough to find the bright spots in life. How could she when murder and treachery were all around her, taking up her time?

  Drink finished, she sighed. “Right, we’d best be getting on then. Prepare yourself, because this won’t be pretty. Not only will you watch me kill him, but you’ll be coming to see Marlene with me. And if you breathe a word about who she is, I’ll give you to her.” How quickly she’d banished the bonhomie, but Jimmy needed to know she was serious.

  “I won’t say owt,” he stuttered. “I swear it.”

  She smiled again, nicely, none of that tight-lipped rubbish. “I wouldn’t either if I knew I was getting twenty K, tax free.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Forty-five-year-old DI Gary Branding stood in the light from three halogens on tall stands placed around The Lion’s Head yard. Forensics milled about doing their thing, white-suited and sombre, hoods up, masks on, booties covering their shoes. Pale spectres, that was what they looked like, sent to haunt the crime scene, searching for clues to bring the killer to justice. Another team were still at the allotment, working beneath the cover of a white tent, sifting through the burnt remains, although Gorley’s husk of a body had been removed.

  A tent was in the process of being set up here, too, and another one would follow, shielding the bodies from any snow should it come down, but most importantly, anyone who gawped out of the pub’s rear windows—they were still being questioned by PCs and DC Strong in the bar area, but it wasn’t uncommon for a nosy wanker to drift away from distracted officers, on the guise of using the toilet, to have a butcher’s. The side driveway had been cordoned off, blocking entry, and a PC stood there with the log for signing in and out of the scene.

  He silently thanked the landlord for clearing the yard of snow. The logistics involved in preserving the scene had it been covered in white was something Gary didn’t want to think about.

  It could be any one of the murder situations he’d found himself in over the years. Except it wasn’t. The whole thing had an extra layer of iffy, and he’d need to have his wits about him to get through it—and he’d have sleepless nights worrying whether he’d missed owt. He was the appointed Senior Investigating Officer, thank God, and would be on hand to divert his colleagues’ attention away from things they shouldn’t be aware of if the need arose, but he couldn’t keep an eye on them all the time, couldn’t know every piece of evidence written in their notebooks until the full reports came through. And then? He could hardly tell them to change their findings, exposing himself as bent, which meant he’d have to chat to the team in incident room briefings so he could steer those clues in another direction prior to reports being written: away from the truth.

  The Dracula-lookalike pathologist, Evan Merton, crouched beside the male victim, whose grey trousers and red boxers bunched around his ankles. Male victim—Gary had to think of him as that while studyi
ng him in order to remain objective; just a body, no one in particular. He’d done the same at Gorley’s scene, finding it difficult to hold back emotions regarding his ex-superior, who’d been a good friend, stuffing his feelings deep down, bringing his detective heart into play—and his criminal one now he worked for Francis and Cassie.

  Two of their own, DC Simon Knight and DS Lisa Codderidge, had been murdered a few metres away from the pub. Had this been on the Barrington, he’d suspect people in the boozer had been warned to keep their mouths shut, to lie, too scared to do otherwise, but this was the Moor estate. Although… Codderidge’s face was a bloody, ripped-up mess, so this could be Cassie’s doing, using her barbs. Why would she kill more officers, though? If she’d killed Bob. Francis hadn’t said whether the man was dead, hadn’t warned him of owt like this going down either, and he’d like to think she would have, seeing as she’d employed him to cover up any dirty work. All she’d spoken to him about was Bob, that he was ‘missing’, but that implied death, didn’t it? With Gorley and these two now dead, it was looking like a connection stared him in the face, one he’d have to snuff out.

  How the fuck would he get the Graftons out of this one if they’d had a hand in it? Maybe she hadn’t told him on purpose. His reactions had been genuine; fellow officers wouldn’t suspect him.

  Clever bitch.

  He didn’t feel any guilt whatsoever about being in their pay—he couldn’t, not with the goings-on at his house. Gorley had been in with Lenny, Gary knew that for a fact, the secret whispered by the then DCI one night in The Donny, and Gary had wanted that for himself, needed it. His wages hadn’t stretched once his wife, Trish, had got ill with a muscular disease and had to give up her job, but he’d been stretched, having to work overtime while worrying about not being home enough to watch over her. Their daughter had stepped up to the plate, but she shouldn’t have to. With Francis giving him ten grand for Bob, plus a so far unspecified amount each week from now on, he could employ a freelance carer, someone to nip in two or three times a day to see how Trish was doing, and to sit with her, put her to bed on those evenings he couldn’t leave the station on time—or like tonight, where he’d gone home but had to come out again to this mess, leaving Trish a captive to their mattress.