The deceased’s face bore no signs of damage from either fists or weapons. Another of Gunner’s trademarks. He beat the shit out of people but never touched their faces. Edwin could only imagine the state of My Lyons’ body beneath that black pin-striped suit and white shirt. Bruises in all colours probably drenched his skin, the poor bastard.
Again, why didn’t I leave this job back then, when Gunner’s real position in the workforce was revealed? When I realised Gunner wasn’t just your average bloke working at a builder’s merchants?
I don’t fucking know, man.
He shoved those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on the present.
The only telltale signs that Mr Lyons was dead were that his chest didn’t rise and fall, his face had a grey pallor, and the outside of his lips bore a blue tinge. Oh, and that his staring eyes were covered in some kind of creepy white film.
It hit Edwin fully, then, that the old dodger was really dead.
Dead.
Bile churned, rising up his windpipe and exiting his mouth before he’d had the chance to stop it. Farrow’s lips widened considerably as he laughed like the proverbial fucking drain.
“No turning back now,” Farrow said. “You’ve left a goodly amount of evidence there on the floor.”
Edwin stared at the bright splash of egg-yolky bile now sitting on a pile of dust that must have been swept up by the last person to use the barn, a coarse-bristled brush beside it, the tip of the long handle resting against the wooden wall. Did this place belong to anyone, or had it been abandoned? Would a farmer or one of his hands waltz in and catch him and Farrow here? See Mr Lyons in all his deathly glory?
All questions he would have contemplated on the journey here if his goddamned brain had allowed it.
“But don’t worry,” Farrow said. “This is my place, so no coppers or whatever will come snooping round. Just so you know, though, that bile of yours will dry up but can be analysed at a later date if need be.”
Edwin didn’t need Farrow to spell it out. He heard what his boss was really saying. Edwin would be prime suspect number one should Farrow wish it.
“So.” Farrow planted meaty hands on even meatier hips. “You’ll be helping me get rid of this piece of shit after all, won’t you.”
Edwin could still walk away. Could still hitch a lift back to Kortley—or even run there—then go into the police station and tell them what was going on. He could explain he was employed to advise Farrow on his businesses—he’d have to make out he knew nothing of the other business, the shady shit—and that Farrow had asked for his opinion on what to do with his barn and they’d found a body. That Edwin had brought up bile and that was why they’d find evidence of him having been there. That he had no idea why Mr Lyons’ body was there—no idea at all.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Farrow chortled. “I can see your brain cells working from here. Whatever you say, I’ll contradict it. I’ll even go as far as to say that at eight o’clock this morning—which, by the way, was when Gunner brought our friend here—that you and me were here with Lyons instead. That Lyons was going to buy my barn but he went all weird on us and struck out. There was a fight, and you broke his neck. Manslaughter, even in self-defence, carries quite a stretch in the nick.”
Edwin had no doubt the authorities would believe Farrow. He was an upstanding member of society, as far as the townsfolk not in his inner circle knew. He gave to local charities, was a personal friend of the mayor. He was a goddamned squeaky clean bloke on the outside. On the inside, though…
“You don’t stand a chance, you know that,” Farrow said. “So how about you grab under his armpits and I grab his feet, eh?”
The idea of touching Mr Lyons… Edwin’s mind raced with what the hell they were going to do with him once they had him in their hands. Farrow obviously had a plan—probably what he’d been thinking about on the way here—but not being privy to it didn’t sit well. Fuck, even being privy to it didn’t sit well, but having some kind of notice as to what was about to happen would be better than none at all.
“Where are we taking him?” Edwin asked, aware that he’d said ‘we’, and that ‘we’ meant he’d subconsciously agreed to do whatever Farrow wanted. Shit a damn brick. “He’s a small bloke, but will he fit in your car boot? Because your boot’s small, too, and I’m thinking he won’t go in there.” He stopped himself from saying anything else. He’d already rambled enough, giving Farrow a massive inkling as to how he was really feeling.
Don’t let him see you’re rattled. Maintain an edge of don’t-give-a-fuck and this-isn’t-bothering-me-at-all.
“Oh, he’ll fit.” Farrow sniffed. Grinned, displaying pure white veneers. “He’ll be stiff as a board with rigor by now. We can snap him, know what I mean?”
Edwin’s guts contracted, and more bile threatened to come up. “Righty ho,” he managed. He’d wanted to say something else, like: Oh, my fucking God, are you serious, man? Or: I’m not snapping no dead body, not for you or anyone. But, yeah, ‘righty ho’ had come out. Great choice of words there. “Don’t much fancy snapping him myself, though, boss. Not for my first time at any rate.”
Farrow smiled again—seemed he enjoyed showing his teeth in situations like this. “All right, I’ll let you off. Ease you into this lark slowly, like. You’ll be a pro in no time, you mark my words. You were born for this kind of thing.”
No, I was born to run in the fields and earn an honest living, and somewhere along the way I got greedy, wanted riches instead, and now look where I’m at.
I could still walk away.
Could you?
Farrow gripped Mr Lyons’ ankles. “Dear oh Lord, he is stiff. Come on, Ed, get a shift on.”
Getting a shift on would be perfect, stripping out of his clothes then dropping them somewhere in the woods out the back of the barn. Burning the fuckers until they turned to ash, then letting his wolf take over, sprinting off to somewhere safe—somewhere miles from Kortley where he could start again.
“Don’t bother,” Farrow said.
“What, you don’t want me to help you move him now?” Edwin asked.
“No, don’t bother doing what you were thinking,” Farrow said. “I’ll be patient with you over this, because I was young once and I encountered my first dead body once, but if you test my patience, get on my last nerve like Lyons here did… Well. You know.”
Edwin knew. He’d be better off not answering Farrow with regards to what the gangster had just said, making out he hadn’t been thinking what Farrow thought he’d been thinking. “Thanks. For not making me snap him.” He smiled, albeit forced, and walked over to join Farrow, legs unsteady, as though no bones were hidden beneath his skin. He reached down and pushed away his feelings of revulsion, fear, and remorse. Dipped his hands under Mr Lyons’ armpits then looked at Farrow for further instructions.
“On the count of three,” Farrow said. “One, two, three…”
My Lyons was surprisingly heavy, considering how slender he’d been in life. The phrase ‘dead weight’ was true, then. The word ‘dead’ ricocheted around Edwin’s mind, and he fought the need to drop Mr Lyons and run. His wolf was howling, desperate for Edwin not to continue with what he was doing, but what good was his wolf to him now? It wouldn’t get him out of this hole, just deeper into it if he shifted then savaged Farrow’s neck. His bile would still be on the floor. Hell, for all he knew, any number of his hairs had fallen out already, or something off the bottom of his shoe that would point to him being here. No, his wolf needed to shut up and leave him alone. It could have a go at him later, when he was by himself in bed and crapping his pants when the true enormity of what was going on here sank in.
Farrow took the lead, walking backwards out of the barn and heading towards his car. The slice of light coming out through the barn door provided illumination, but once they’d gone a few feet the darkness took over. Mr Lyons was in a rigid L shape from where he’d been sitting, back against the wall, his legs straight
out in front of him. Edwin kept expecting the dead man’s arse to sag, his body to bow, but he was stuck in this position until whatever the fuck happened to a body after rigor made him pliant again.
Edwin told himself he was carrying something else—a roll of carpet or a small bale of hay, perhaps—and by the time they got to the rear of the car and they lowered Mr Lyons to the ground, he let out a long breath and turned his back on the scene, not seeing anything of the vista in front of him—too dark. All he saw was an image of his own creation—a jail cell and a copper continually jangling the keys to Edwin’s freedom.
He heard Farrow click his key fob to open the boot. The creak of that boot opening seemed loud—too loud—and then Farrow cleared his throat.
“It’s all very well taking a breather, mate, but I need a hand,” Farrow said.
Edwin took a deep snatch of air then turned to face his boss. After Farrow’s nod at Mr Lyons, in the meagre light floating out of the boot, Edwin tucked his hands beneath those stiff, dead armpits again and helped haul the body upwards. They manoeuvred the right angle of the corpse into the car, Lyons’ arse pointing towards the back seat, his head resting on one side of the boot opening and his feet jutting out of the other. Edwin let the man go and shuddered, glad he’d successfully hidden the involuntary movement.
“Right, time to do a bit of snapping.” Farrow pushed the sleeves of his jacket and shirt up his arms.
Edwin stepped back, giving the impression he was making more room for Farrow. In reality, it was so he could stare at the ground without being seen and poke his fingers into his ears. Doing that didn’t stop him hearing, though, it just muffled the sound a little. A bout of shivers took hold of him then, and he moved back a tad more, glancing at the surrounding area.
A grey-white wolf stood beside the barn door.
A wolf Edwin knew all too well.
The animal stared at him, its mouth open, just like it would be had it been the person himself looking Edwin’s way. A slack jaw from shock. Edwin’s dropped, too, for the same reason, and his heart rate picked up, the speed feeling too fast for his body to cope with.
What the fuck’s Stuart doing here? And how the hell do I explain what he’s just seen me do?
Chapter Three
Edwin blinked, and the wolf was gone.
Mr Lyons had been ‘snapped’ into position, and Farrow had slammed the boot shut.
Edwin blew out a long breath, his pulse raiding his ears with such a loud set of throbs that he thought he’d either be sick again or faint. Hardly something a big bloke like him ought to be doing in front of his boss, when he wanted said boss to think he had all of his emotions under control. That he was cool with this.
He concentrated on his breathing and getting it back to normal while Farrow walked back into the barn. Should Edwin follow him? His legs said no, they wouldn’t take him there, so he remained where he was and glanced to where the wolf had stood.
Now he wasn’t so sure it had been Stuart. Or was that his mind playing tricks on him, making him worry because, if it hadn’t been Stuart, and someone else knew what he’d just done with Farrow, what would Edwin do then? He wracked his brain, trying to think whether the pack had any other grey-white wolves.
It didn’t.
So it was either Stuart or some unknown wolf, and the chances of a stranger wolf just happening by was a remote possibility.
The light in the barn went off, thrusting Edwin from his thoughts. Farrow came back out. Going by the sound of a chain, the boss was securing the door. Edwin just about managed to see him strutting towards the car. Normally, if someone in person form—someone Edwin didn’t know and wasn’t close to—had seen their activity, Edwin would have considered telling Farrow they’d been watched. But not if it was Stuart, no fucking way. Or any of the pack, come to think of it. Opening his mouth would result in death for the watcher, he was sure of it, and they would be Edwin’s ‘next time’, the time he might have to be more hands-on with their dead body.
He couldn’t do it.
Farrow folded himself into the car, and Edwin followed suit. They sat in silence for a few moments, both of them staring through the windshield at the black night, Farrow no doubt thinking up some more threats to keep Edwin on his side.
“Just so you know, I’ll not be saying anything,” Edwin said. He wanted this conversation over and done with, out of the way. “I know what’ll happen if I do. I’m not stupid. I’ve known about your other business for a while now and not said a word. I don’t like what you do—what we just did—but… Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, is there? It’s not like you’re going to let me walk away. So I know I’m stuck.”
“Glad you do.” Farrow nodded, as though telling himself he was happy with what Edwin had said. “Shame to waste that beefy body of yours. I mean, I could do with some extra muscle in my disposal team.”
“So is that what you want me doing now? Getting rid of bodies?”
I can’t do that as a full-time job. This one time…this body in the boot…yeah, that’ll have to be done, but doing it again, with some other body? No.
“Maybe.” Farrow shrugged. “But if you advise me right, and the people you’re advising me about play ball, there won’t be any more bodies, will there. So I suggest you make sure what you tell me in future is stellar, then you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Relief seemed to pour from every part of Edwin, draining his body so that his shoulders sagged and the tendons in his neck relaxed. He could do that. Give decent advice and prevent anyone else getting killed. Shit, he’d even go to the people messing Farrow about and warn them himself that Farrow would kill them if they didn’t do what he wanted. He almost laughed at that. He would potentially become an adviser to many, not just to Farrow.
“I have a proposition, boss.” Edwin cleared his throat. “What about if I use my ‘muscle’ and give those people a warning? I know Gunner usually does it, but I could be the second visitor, if you catch my drift—then Gunner won’t be offended or think I’m taking over his job. I don’t want to get on his bad side. And I can be their last chance saloon or whatever the fuck it’s called.” It wasn’t a thrilling prospect and went against everything he stood for, but surely it was better than allowing those people to die? Although he had it in mind to only give verbal warnings, nothing more if he could help it.
“Good man.” Farrow turned to stare at him.
Edwin didn’t stare back; he continued facing ahead.
“I knew you’d see sense.” Farrow started the engine. “I’ll let you know when someone needs a visit. Now, we need to get rid of Lyons, so we’re taking a trip to see my mate. Known him all my life. We do each other favours, see.”
Edwin dreaded visiting this ‘mate’—dreaded doing whatever they were about to do—but right this second he had no choice. All right, he did. He could get out of the car and do what he’d thought about earlier—either go to the police or run then set up home somewhere else. Leaving Stuart behind would devastate him either way, but what else could he do? Wasn’t it better to be in prison than looking over his shoulder every five minutes?
It’s pointless running. Farrow would probably find me wherever I go. So it’ll have to be me serving some time for my part in this so far.
Fuck it.
Edwin shook his head, realising they were now on the road back to town. His nerves rattled harder the closer to Kortley they got. If fate had it in for Edwin, she’d have Farrow pulled over for speeding or something and Mr Lyons would be discovered in the boot.
Edwin felt sick.
It seemed that fate was giving him a reprieve, though. They sailed through town with no problems, and at the end of the main road, Farrow took a left, then a short way down took another. The car seemed to crawl along a backstreet then stopped, and Farrow leant forward to peer past Edwin and through the passenger window.
“Ah, he’s still there. His car is in the courtyard. Good.” Farrow drove forward a few metres then re
versed into the courtyard so the boot was right in front of a steel door.
Edwin had no idea where they were and mapped the main street in his head to work it out. They were at the rear of one of the shops, he knew that much.
“Out,” Farrow said.
Edwin’s stomach rolled, and once again he felt sick. Was this even happening? Really? Or was it some dream that had swallowed him up and would soon spit him out in his bed, leaving him shaky and relieved that he hadn’t done anything illegal?
The tarmac beneath his shoes told him it wasn’t a dream. It felt too solid, too real, and as he closed the car door quietly, he automatically glanced about to make sure anyone who rented the flats above the shops weren’t looking out of their windows. All curtains and blinds were drawn tight, thank fuck, but he lowered his head all the same. Who knew if there was CCTV around here that could capture his image?
He had to say something about that.
Once Farrow had climbed out of the car, too, Edwin whispered, “CCTV?”
“It’ll be sorted. Good advising, though, Ed.” A low chuckle from Farrow swam through the air.
Such a creepy, horrible sound.
Farrow rapped on the steel door with his knuckles while Edwin stood by, all but shaking in his damn shoes. With another person entering the mix, things could get sticky. Loose lips and all that.
“This mate,” Edwin said.
“Yeah, I trust him. He’s done this before.” Farrow knocked on the door again.
“I see.”
So there had obviously been others that Farrow had had to make disappear instead of just leaving them where they’d died. Others where questions would undoubtedly be asked had their bodies been found. He thought about the people who had died recently, then went farther back in time, but he couldn’t think of any prominent member of the town who would be missed should they fall foul of Farrow. Then again, Kortley was a pretty big town. It wasn’t possible for Edwin to know everybody. And did he really want to know who else this ‘mate’ of Farrow had helped hide?
The Adviser Page 2
