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

opposite, letting in the light of day, telling herself Jess would be back soon, sand between her toes, in her sandals, and the bottom of her suitcase.

It had helped her get through.

Two items of Jess’ had been returned despite the police saying they’d be needed as evidence. Lenny had worked his magic, telling a high-up pig in his pocket that the man who’d killed Jess would be quietly dealt with, so why hold on to those possessions? Somehow—rules broken, Lou had no doubt of that—she’d received the pink wellies and the transparent rainbow coat.

The post-mortem had revealed strangulation, the marks of hands around her dainty throat emerging an hour or so after Karen Scholes had found the body on Sculptor’s Field, the broken hyoid bone, the tiny red spots around her eyes—all of it evidence that someone had throttled her child.

Who could do such a thing?

Jess sat on the bed with its ballerina duvet and smoothed her hand over the pillow. One of Jess’ hairs snagged on the diamond of her engagement ring, and Lou held it up to the light from the lamp, crying at the way that hair glimmered. It had always glimmered, but now the rest of it was beneath the ground in a box, ready to rot. Eventually, her baby would have bugs eating her eyes and crawling in her mouth and—

She imagined this sort of thing daily, tormenting herself. Was it any wonder she’d gone slightly mad? Who in their right mind could cope with such images and the hurt they produced? But she couldn’t help it; seemed she wanted to feel the pain as penance for not being at the factory when Jess had been stolen. If she’d been there, the man wouldn’t have taken her. Lou would’ve fought to snatch her from his arms.

Correction: the man wouldn’t have got near her in the first place, as Lou always, always held her hand and kept her close.

Did she blame Joe? A little—how could she not? With grief, you had to blame someone, didn’t you, had to have one or two people you held accountable. He should have been holding her hand. He should have fought harder. But he had tried, and she wasn’t so mental and twisted that she couldn’t see how such situations spiralled out of control. Everyone who’d been there had told her he’d turned into a lion, defending his cub, and it had happened so fast he hadn’t been able to stop it.

Then there was the gun pointed his way.

Ninety-five percent of her didn’t hold him responsible, but the other five… She’d have to work hard not to let her feelings show, keep them tucked away inside, find someone else to settle her blame on. Joe was broken, and he carried enough guilt as it was.

What about the police?

She allowed scenarios to enter her mind, watching them as film snippets: her spying on the coppers involved; planning how to waylay them without being seen; killing them for their part in this. Yes, that would keep her going throughout the coming years. She’d have a focus, even if she didn’t follow through.

She couldn’t let herself remain on that train of thought and told herself such things would never happen. No, she’d never kill a police officer—she’d killed someone with Doreen Prince once, and that was enough for her. And Jess would never have bugs crawling all over her, not in Lou’s mind. She’d remain preserved in the coffin, as perfect in death as she’d been in life.

And anyroad, she was in Cornwall, wasn’t she, living down there.

It was better to tell herself that.

Chapter Three

Jason was dreaming. Or, more to the point, having a nightmare. Odd how you knew it was a dream, yet you were asleep and should know no such thing. Pain soared in his leg, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was nailed to the floor. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but dreams had a way about them where they just told you stuff, didn’t they, gave you knowledge. There you were, in whatever situation—he was usually fighting his dad and killing him, saving Mam from the arsehole—all the information there.

It was the agony that was the biggest clue regarding the nail, and the constant feel of it; if he moved his leg even a millimetre, the solid spike made itself known, as did the pain, the heat, the utter wretchedness, the broken bone where the nail had pierced through it.

He urged himself to wake up—in his bed, not the squat where he guessed his subconscious mind had placed him—but the struggle was too much. He was tired, and alcohol still floated through his body. Was that part of the dream or reality? Had he been on a bender? The remnants of Jack Daniel’s clung to his furry tongue, so that was a possibility, but the taste of old blood didn’t make sense.

Alcohol-induced nightmares were a right old wanker.

A noise. Someone shuffling? It sounded like shoes shushing over carpet.

“Ah, you’re coming round then. Do you need some painkillers?” A pause. “If you give me any bother, Cassie says I have to knock you back out, just so you know. Punch you, like.”

Jason frowned, and the action hurt his sore face. It was on fire, tight with what he could only assume was dried blood. The smell of it was strong, the copper pennies of childhood inside a piggy bank.

And…hang on, why the fuck was Jimmy Lews talking to him?

Jason opened his eyes—or he thought he did. They seemed already open, scratchy and dry, and they’d just rolled down from on high, as though he didn’t have any eyelids. He breathed in through his nose, and more air than usual entered—one nostril was bigger than the other?

A gauzy Jimmy bent over him, peering right into Jason’s face. Jesus Christ, that acne of