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

overload, you greedy bastards—a pint of lager for Knight, something with Coke, ice, and a slice for Codderidge. The pair of them lived on the Barrington so must come to the Moor thinking they wouldn’t be spotted by their other halves and had done this for years. She didn’t know how someone hadn’t grassed them up yet, but then again, people around here would think it was two coppers chatting shit after work and take no notice, wouldn’t they.

Lou knew about the affair from an early evening one winter. She’d gone to The Lion’s Head to spy years ago, Joe busy at the farm fixing a broken fence at the edge of the property, and she’d gone out under the guise of having one of her ‘drives’. She’d spied on them through that very side window, then, once they’d got up to leave, she’d pressed herself into the darkness, expecting them to walk past the turning into the yard, but they’d come towards her instead, Knight shoving Codderidge against the wall and snogging her, then they’d gone into the yard proper, hand in hand, Lou swearing they’d spot her any second.

If they were good coppers, they would, but look how they didn’t even find my Jess.

Immobile, she’d watched them get up to certain things beside a large wheelie bin close to the back of the pub, the light from an upstairs window shining down enough that she got the gist—the same light that was on now—showcasing hands and fumbles and kisses and laughter. And grunts. She’d wanted to be sick but had to wait until they’d left. How could they do that when her child was dead? How could they giggle and create such appalling sounds? Didn’t they care?

She’d returned another night, same time, different week, and they’d been at it like rabbits again. A nudge in the right direction from her sent gossips nattering in The Donny, letting her know the affair had been going on for years, and nowt was done about it because: “It isn’t any of my business where he pokes his sausage stick, duck.”

Lou shivered. Hoped they’d come out soon so they could get on with it and kill the fuckers. Her nail weapon was in place, a new best friend on her steady hand, even snugger because of the glove.

Cassie and Francis had baseball bats.

Lou thought about any evidence left behind from them, but that should be minimal. They were covered up well, and the landlord must have cleared the snow out here for the deliveries, so no tyre tracks or footprints for other piggies to nose at once the bodies were discovered.

The back door opened, one used by smokers, and some round-as-a-ball fella emerged, laughter and music from the pub floating out behind him, telling of lives lived without unhappiness in them, or maybe they laughed because, well, if you didn’t, you’d go mad.

Like me.

He sparked up, took a drag, the end of his cigarette glowing orange. Lou swore the tension around her pressed close, a tangible thing. Cassie had sewn the mouth holes up in the balaclavas, but Lou was paranoid their clouds of breath would give her away. Her skin was wet around her lips, on her chin, and she had the urge to wipe it, but she couldn’t move else she risked them being spotted.

A few more drags, then his phone rang. Lou jumped at the loud tone, her chest seeming to hollow from her heart beating so wildly, and she reminded herself to keep calm. Her body trembled, and she couldn’t stop it. Was this a portent? Were they going to get caught? Was this a sign to tell them to abandon the job?

The fella dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and swiped the screen, the light bringing his face into sharp focus. Bushy beard. A squished nose. Thick lips. Ruddy skin. He scuffed the concrete with his boot, and a small stone skittered. “Yeah? At the pub… I’ve only had one pint… Tsk. I’ll come home now, all right?”

Someone wasn’t happy their bloke was in the boozer.

He stuffed his phone away. “Can’t bleedin’ go anywhere on my own these days.” He traipsed off down the side of the building, coughing.

That bloody door would pose a problem in other circumstances, but Cassie had a metre-long piece of wood to prop beneath the handle, preventing anyone coming out once their targets were in place.

She’d thought of everything.

It reminded her of when Doreen had put that chair beneath the handle in their kitchen. This time, though, the wood would actually do something worthwhile.

At her thought of killing, Lou’s heart sped up, and she blew out a breath.

“How long does it take to eat pie and fucking chips?” Cassie muttered.

“Quiet,” Francis warned.

Lou wanted to answer, griping at Cassie to follow her own bloody rules and shut her gob. Instead, she stared at the pub and went through their plan. They’d pull this off. They had to.

Time dragged. Cassie and Francis were true pros—they stood still, waiting, waiting, while Lou fidgeted. They even breathed quietly, while Lou panted. What must they look like, three figures in the dark against the wall, masks on, weapons in hand? Part of Lou couldn’t believe she was doing this, but the other…it couldn’t wait to get started.

More time passed. What if Knight and Codderidge had been called away on a case? Had they abandoned their dinner to run off and help someone else, giving them their full attention, the opposite of what they’d done for Jess?

Stop winding yourself up.

The door opened, and out they tumbled, the pervy pair, Amy Winehouse singing about a woman called Valerie in the background. Lou stiffened, so angry at the sight of them, and she had the stupid urge to rush them, stab the shit out of their faces, obliterating those looks of years ago,