The Noble Murder (The Barrington Patch Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  She would because she didn’t like porridge.

  By the time she was thirteen, she’d had enough, and knew enough to realise what she’d been through wasn’t right, nor was it legal, and that everything Lionel had said was lies. She’d grown into a surly girl, always angry, an outcast amongst her peers, acknowledging that what Lionel did wasn’t a secret to be kept but one that should be shouted about.

  Shame prevented that, though, a deep sense of disgust at herself, at him, at everyone who didn’t know about it leaving her to cope by herself. They were all to blame, even though that thought process was irrational. Plus, she didn’t have the heart to admit to anyone what she’d been through—she’d be viewed as dirty, the girls at school would see to that, spreading their vicious lies. A slag. Someone who went with a filthy old man. None of them would have any sympathy—they weren’t exactly a nice bunch, all raised with their mothers’ way of looking at life, gossiping, casting aspersions, throwing stones at glass houses. Mam would say they weren’t Christian if she heard the kinds of things the schoolgirls spouted, and it wasn’t as if Francis could confide in Mam either.

  Looking back, Francis now knew Mam had suspected Lionel, perhaps thinking he hadn’t done owt to her daughter that Sunday she’d come home early. She wouldn’t have known it had been going on for ages before then. And Francis understood now what a fancy piece was, that Dad hadn’t been seeing anyone about a fucking dog. If she told Mam about Lionel, everything would come out about where Dad also went other than the market.

  It was a mess she couldn’t handle. Better to cope with what she knew than the unsteady, rocky ground of what she didn’t.

  Francis wasn’t a Christian kind of person either, despite Mam bringing her up right. How could she be when corrupted to such a degree she thought terrible things? Mainly to do with Lionel, but they had seeped out, away from him, infecting her perception of many folks. She had fantasies about people, too. Kids who pissed her off for whatever reason. Thoughts of hurting them, giving them the pain she’d endured. Watching them cry. Seeing the fear in their eyes that was in hers after every Sunday Sin session when she stared at her hateful face in the mirror. Maybe she’d even kill them, pretend they were Lionel. Someone younger than her would be easier to overpower. And wasn’t that what Lionel had done, chosen someone smaller?

  If she could become the one in charge of another’s life, she’d regain some control. If she could call the shots, be the one to manipulate others, she’d maintain some sort of balance.

  She’d know the power Lionel wielded.

  Chapter Four

  DI Gary Branding had read through his witness statements plus those of the uniforms, ensuring they were all digitally filed. Many people who’d run off when the gun had fired at the funeral hadn’t come forward, and out of those who’d remained, no one had seen owt iffy. He wasn’t surprised they’d said that. Residents of the Barrington tended to mind their own if they thought Cassie had a hand in something—and keep it quiet if she didn’t. They could never be too sure if she had a finger in a pie, so better to shut their mouths than risk a visit from her if they put their foot in it.

  Nobody wanted to meet Marlene.

  Contrary to other officers’ beliefs (or, let’s be honest here, their gossip), he didn’t think for one second Cassie had ordered her mother’s death. Like she’d said, she’d have done it herself if she’d had a mind. What had she meant by that? Why would she want to kill her own mam, for fuck’s sake? How bad did things need to be for her to do that?

  And what level of depravity would she have to ‘discover’ in order to end Francis?

  Gary took a step back in his mind. The discovery she’d mentioned was possibly related to the shooting, and although he didn’t want to know (because then he’d have the urge to actually be a proper copper and do something about it), he was curious about the Grafton world, how it ticked.

  What must it be like to be them?

  Them? There was only one left, and that was Cassie. He hadn’t thought of that until now, a young woman all alone, maybe under threat from the shooter herself—and, tough as she was, he’d seen the vulnerability peeking through; she’d allowed him to by certain things she’d said: “I’m not a complete monster…”

  Maybe he ought to check in on her tomorrow, see how she was faring. Jimmy was with her, though, so she’d be okay for tonight and, conveniently, Gary popped that dilemma to bed.

  He’d done the usual digital check on the victim, able to search Francis in the files without getting questions thrown at him over it. She didn’t have a criminal record—what a bloody laugh—but she had given a statement years ago regarding a man called Lionel Smart. To the outsider she’d seem innocent; it would appear, to those not in the know, she’d been shot at random. Not that she had a price on her head or, as she’d said to Cassie, ‘B’ had found her.

  Gary had to squash his desire to find this ‘B’ and put him away. Instead, he could find him without his team knowing and hand him over to Cassie.

  What had Francis done to deserve being shot?

  Come on, it isn’t difficult. Look how she treated me, how she spoke to me. Some folks would send a bullet her way just for that. And look at what she did with Cassie and Lou, killing my colleagues. Any number of people could want her dead.

  That was a thought. What if someone had found out Francis was involved with the police slayings? If Tommy Zander hadn’t shot Lou dead, Gary would have seriously considered he had a vendetta on his hands.

  But no, it wasn’t any such thing. Lou had been murdered because of a man in her past, and Francis? She must have been, too. As the woman herself had suspected with her dying breaths—or had she seen this ‘B’ at the funeral?—then she had to have known them.

  Maybe a shot to her heart was a kinder death than the one Cassie would have given her if she’d had the chance to make that decision. But would Cassie be so callous as to barb up her mother’s face, torture her?

  Depends how much the woman upset her.

  Families were weird. So much hurt there, so much to get past in order to move on. So many secrets that came tumbling out. Who knew, with the death of Lenny, shit might have unravelled, things Cassie had been unaware of. Maybe her father had been the one keeping Francis safe, and now he was dead, ‘B’ had crawled out of the woodwork, safe in the knowledge Lenny couldn’t come after him.

  But hadn’t he heard about Cassie, how bad she was? How, when she had vengeance in mind, she was an outright animal? If not, that meant ‘B’ wasn’t au fait with what went on at the Barrington these days, therefore, he no longer lived in Moorbury. He must have heard about Lenny’s death on the grapevine and come calling. Or he just didn’t care about repercussions.

  Why had he stalled, though? Why not come here back in January after Lenny was buried? Where had the fella been between Francis pissing him off and now?

  As Gary was wont to do when questions swirled to the degree they were, he pushed his desk chair back and leant over to power down his computer; if he walked away, occupied himself with something else, he might get some respite. The trouble was, this case would be on his mind until he or Cassie had found whoever had done this. Gary had to remain on his toes, watching what other officers were doing, eyes in the back of his bloody head.

  Not for the first time, he grumbled to himself about how difficult his job was now he worked for the law and the criminal.

  The office was eerily quiet—he’d sent his team home—and he pondered on his DS, Kath Lowry, who’d still been here after Gary had come back from Cassie’s this evening. She was poking into the shooting, asking him questions she shouldn’t be asking—well, she should, it was her job, but they were ones he didn’t want to hear. He’d got internally irate, wanting to slap his hand over her perpetually moving mouth to stop her words spewing: Shut up, Kath, just shut up, will you?

  Instead, common sense had prevailed, and he hadn’t stepped over to the dark side. He’d acted blasé, his coiled-inside body g
iving off outside-casual vibes, and told her to come back in the morning, where he’d address the team as a collective. “Better than me repeating myself.” In reality, he hadn’t wanted to give her any food for thought, something to chew over at home and in her dreams, which would stir up his already boiling pot, one that had so many churning bubbles he may well get scalded.

  All he had to do was find a way to go through the motions, pretend he was legally heading the investigation, send Kath on a wild goose chase to keep her occupied (under the guise he only trusted her so she wouldn’t argue the toss, too caught up in self-congratulation), then swing it so the case died a quiet death. With no witnesses, no suspects, and the probable bullet results from forensics saying the gun was a so-and-so and hadn’t been used in any previous crimes that the police were aware of, where else was there to go?

  And he prayed that gun hadn’t been used elsewhere, otherwise he was in a whole heap of shite.

  The problem was, with Francis being such a big player in Moorbury, larger than life in presence but not stature, officers were mulling over who’d done it, chatting amongst themselves off the clock over a pint or two. What Gary had to his advantage was, Francis hadn’t been liked, what Lenny and Cassie did on the estate wasn’t liked, so people wouldn’t be upset enough to care about finding the killer, they’d just talk about it instead.

  Monitor blank, he grabbed his suit jacket and, on the way to the lift, sent a message to Trish’s carer, Madeline: Can you stop for a few more hours? With the case I’m on, I have to hang around a bit later.

  Madeline: No problem! I can stay over, if you like?

  They’d spoken about this, and Gary had made the spare room up for her, just in case. She was single, so no ties, and had bought a little holdall with some nightwear in it, a toothbrush and whatnot, to keep at his house. Maybe tonight he’d take her up on that sleepover. He had someone he wanted to visit, and it might end up taking him over to the other side of midnight, deep into the witching hour.

  He replied, thanking her for the offer, said he appreciated her and would give her some extra cash for the trouble.

  After all, he had plenty of it he couldn’t put in the bank.

  Dodgy money.

  * * * *

  Brenda had finished with her latest mark, Sid Watson, who’d died in his sleep—thankfully after he’d handed her a large sum of his savings, which she’d passed on to Cassie for her to launder. Brenda had found him dead, retreated from his home, and phoned Cassie to alert her contact at the hospital that a body needed removing.

  Brenda pretended to be a carer for the NHS, fleecing old men, the names given to Cassie by the hospital person, who kept an eye on those close to popping their clogs, ones who wouldn’t ask questions if they were sent home to die and a fake nurse turned up to sit with them, make their dinner, and give them a wash if need be. Lenny had started the scam, and while Cassie thought it distasteful, the young woman couldn’t deny it was a massive earner.

  Brenda left the home of her current target, Rudyard Bell, the whippet-thin man himself tucked up in bed on account of being tired by eight o’clock; all that talking, see (and Brenda could talk). She’d spent a lot of time poking around his house while he snored—she liked to lift mementoes whenever she got the chance. Past thefts: salt and pepper shakers, a lighter, a shiny metal ball that had no apparent purpose (a paperweight? She used it as a doorstop). Rudyard had a rather nice fountain pen she had her eye on, and once he got to the stage where he was on his last legs, it would find itself inside her handbag, along with a few other things.

  He couldn’t ‘get it up’, so that was one service she didn’t have to provide. She didn’t mind having sex with them if it meant they handed over their money—if she wasn’t seeing someone else, which she was for the first time in years—so at least while she was testing the waters with a private relationship, she wouldn’t have to show off her lady garden for two men at once.

  She’d always secretly fancied Gary Branding but had steered clear, seeing as he was a copper. Her job wasn’t something he could catch wind of, but when Cassie had let her know that in future, should Brenda find herself in a situation with the old men that needed the police to push folks away from nosing into what she was doing, Branding was now in Cassie’s pocket and it was him who’d be dealing with it: “But he won’t know what your job is until he has to.”

  Interesting.

  Gary was married, his wife with some debilitating illness or other, and his reason for seeing Brenda suited her fine. She’d never really allowed herself to have a proper relationship, not since Vance Johnson anyroad, and look who he’d turned out to be, the bloody bastard who’d killed Lou and Joe Wilson’s little girl, Jess, plus all those other kiddies in different towns. Gary only wanted sex, maybe a bit of a chat and a laugh every now and then, and he’d made that clear from the start: “I love Trish, it’s just…”

  “A man has needs,” she’d finished for him.

  And he did have needs, the randy bugger; he’d called round hers in the early hours around six one day last week, although she’d warned him Sharon Barnett was a nosy cow and might spot him coming and going if he wanted to make a habit of it, so they’d either have to think of a plausible excuse for him being there or meet elsewhere.

  Brenda earnt a good wage with Cassie, so she could afford a few liaisons in hotels if it came to that. Maybe in Lincoln or Gainsborough, somewhere they were less likely to spot anyone they knew and vice versa. Folks would talk in Moorbury, always had and always would when it came to that sort of thing, although they wouldn’t tell Trish, preferring to gossip about it instead.

  Gary had messaged her while she’d been inspecting Rudyard’s egg collection, Fabergé types if she wasn’t mistaken, close copies that might be worth a mint, asking if she had a bit of time to spare. Brenda was more than happy to oblige, so she’d taken pictures of the eggs with her phone ready to Google them when she had a spare minute. No need to tell Cassie about those, was there.

  Brenda didn’t want people knowing about her kleptomania. She understood why she did it, it stemmed from her poor childhood and never having nice things, as did earning lots of money to ensure she never went hungry again.

  She walked up the street and, around the corner, got in her car. Residents on New Barrington couldn’t be trusted like those on Old. If the New lot saw her parking outside Rudyard’s they’d ask questions. At least if she rocked up to his door in her nurse’s uniform and grey wig, the thick-framed glasses, they’d assume he had a carer. Normally, Brenda opted for saucy clothing, something to get the men going so they fell for her, but this fella, no, she didn’t want to risk showing who she really was, what with his fancy house and even fancier neighbours.

  She drove away, safe in the knowledge Rudyard didn’t have any pesky family members for her to worry about, no questions being asked after his death about a large withdrawal. She didn’t have much time with regards to him being well enough to visit the bank—she’d landed her sob story on him last night, her first night with him, saying she was going to lose her house, be turfed out on the street. He’d said he’d lend her some—lend, like he’d be alive long enough for her to pay him back!—but she’d agreed to his generosity of handing over twenty-seven grand, a number she’d plucked out of her mind based on what Cassie’s other contact at the bank had passed on: Rudyard had forty to his name, plus the house (and those lovely eggs).

  It didn’t take long to get home, and she took her wig and glasses off, stashing them in the glove box. Her nurse’s uniform hidden beneath her chunky fake fur coat, she walked inside, rushed up for a shower, then put on some saucy underwear, covering it all with her new dressing gown, a white fluffy effort with pink hearts. She applied some slap and, in no time, the doorbell jingled. She answered, ushering Gary inside then going out onto the path to check down at Sharon’s, the ground cold on her bare feet. The woman’s house was lit up in the living room, and the shape of her silhouette through the light-coloured cur
tains told Brenda she was most likely editing The Life at her computer by the window.

  Inside, Brenda joined Gary in the living room. “Watch it when you leave. If Sharon’s got to help deliver The Life tonight, you might get spotted. Cassie took a new writer on, that Michelle Forster, and asked her to put some stuff about her mam in it. She wants it out the door by midnight.”

  “I left my car down the road a bit.”

  “Should be okay then. Fancy a drink, or do you just want to get straight down to it?”

  “A chat would be nice first, so yeah, a small scotch if you have one.”

  Brenda opened her gold globe drinks cabinet—tacky but she loved it—and poured him enough to keep him legal while driving. She opted for a gin and tonic, then sat beside him on the sofa.

  He leant back and stared at the ceiling. “What do you know about Francis?”

  Brenda huffed. “If you’re hoping to use me as a grass as well as a hole to poke your frankfurter into, think again. I’m loyal to Cassie, end of.”

  “So am I, that’s why I was asking.”

  Oh. She tested the waters. “I heard you work for her.”

  “Hmm. I’m keeping this murder low on the radar so she can deal with it. I’m actually trying to help her by finding out who’d want to kill her mother—if I can get a name, I can pass it on.”

  “Don’t look at me! I won’t chat shit unless she says I can.”

  “Can I ask her?”

  Brenda shrugged. “If you like.”

  He used a burner familiar to Brenda—she had one from Cassie, too—and the reply came back fast. He turned the screen so she could read it: I trust Brenda with my life.

  Brenda’s eyes stung. Bloody hell, her mascara was going to run, and she’d done her face up all nice, too.

  Now I feel bad about those fucking eggs. I’ll tell Cassie about them. She’ll probably share the proceeds if I do.

  “Right then,” she said. “Let’s get our heads together. I’ve got all night if you have.”