The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3) by Emmy Ellis (smart books to read .TXT) 📕

all this? Had she dealt with Karen and Jason, then moved on to the two sides of bacon?

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