The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  Crew Two had been there when she’d arrived, the carpet already rolled up by the two fellas, a woman on the floor scrubbing the boards, another wiping a wall. Cassie had changed into clean leggings and a top from her boot, made them hot drinks once she’d fed the furnace, then got down on her knees to help wash the nasty wallpaper in the living room, still too wired up to go home and sleep. The crew had chatted as if they weren’t ridding the place of blood, and Cassie found out a lot by listening to them.

  It had felt good to be a part of the team instead of the leader of it.

  Breakfast finished, she sipped some coffee. “Thanks for that, Mam.”

  “I thought you’d need it. You’ve hardly eaten the last couple of days.”

  “Been slightly busy.” She resisted rolling her eyes. “How was Lou after I left?”

  Mam squirted the worktops and hob with anti-bacterial spray. “She should crawl back into her hole now. I had a word, let her know any more shit for us to deal with, and we won’t be happy.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Okay, actually.” Mam wiped the sides with a sponge. “Said she’d better get cracking making the pies for the Fayre, so she’d be baking well into the early hours.”

  “She’ll have been awake when Felix and Ted turned up then.”

  “Hmm. How did Jimmy handle knowing what Marlene is?”

  Cassie smiled. “I think he was a bit shocked but relieved he didn’t have to meet some nutter.”

  “I’ll never forget when Doreen first twigged it was the mincer.”

  It seemed ages ago now that Doreen had killed Karen, yet it was so recent. The pigs’ murders had wiped away the shit with Karen and Zhang Wei, then dealing with Jason had stolen more time, stretching it so it felt as if weeks had gone by. Hopefully, there’d be no hassle for a while now. Cassie and Mam could enjoy the two days of the Fayre and kick back for a bit, Cassie only doing the usual estate business, collecting rents, managing the drugs, and all the other little things that made up her daily routine.

  “Right, I’d better get down to Jimmy’s then the Fayre, show my face, wave the collection box for Gorley’s funeral flowers under their noses to take suspicion off us.” She stood. “Are you coming with me or going in your own car?”

  “I’ll be down in a bit.”

  Cassie went into the hallway then the office to take some cash out of the safe, ignoring the ledger that needed filling out. Work could do one for now. She put the money in her purse and, back in the hallway, stuck her boots on, slid her arms into her jacket sleeves, and zipped it up.

  Excitement from childhood swirled inside her at the thought of the Fayre, although she doubted the candy floss and hot dogs would appeal to her now, but she could sniff them in the air and remember her times at Sculptor’s Field with Dad, up on his shoulders, him letting her down when she wanted to go on the merry-go-round, and she always, always chose the unicorn to sit on, pretending she was a fairy.

  She drove away feeling lighter now Lou had earnt the title of The Piggy Farmer and Jason was out of the picture. Amazing really, how much he’d annoyed her just by breathing. With him dead, a weight had sloughed off her shoulders, and life had gone back to normal. Well, it would once Branding closed the cases on Gorley, Knight, and Codderidge.

  Cassie dropped Jimmy’s cash off, not staying to chat, then drove to Sculptor’s Field. She parked in the cordoned-off area reserved for cars, of which there were many. The weather hadn’t prevented people from coming out—it never did for the Fayre—and most of the snow had gone, only the cold air remaining plus a weird white sky, no clouds. Dad would have predicted more snow was on the way, but the weatherman, chortling on the radio last night as she’d driven home, had said otherwise. Tomorrow, the sun was coming, along with milder days for a week or so, a fake spring making an appearance.

  She approached the Fayre, as giddy as a young girl at the sight of the tents and stalls set out in a massive circle on the frozen ground, people milling around on the grass in the enclosed area, The Beast towering high above them right in the middle of it all.

  It resembled a market in a horseshoe shape, but at the top was Clive the Clown’s red-and-white-striped tent, the largest, with its white ball on top, same as a newel post. To either side, just behind, were purple-and-white ones, flags flapping in the breeze. The medium one on the right belonged to Betty’s daughter, Liz, who’d taken over Bloom’s once her mother had died, and the smallest, to the left, was the somewhat eerie weekend home to The Old Mystic.

  Times past, Cassie had wanted to go in, but of course, Dad had said no, she was too small for the likes of fortunes being told and, “You don’t want to be believing anything that comes out of that baggage’s mouth. She speaks a right load of horseshit—and don’t tell Mam I swore.”

  Now, though, she could make her own decisions and, as she walked through the crowd, nodding at anyone who dared to make eye contact, she headed straight for the little tent.

  Sod’s law, Doreen stopped her.

  “All right, duck?”

  “Fine, ta. Finally got some breathing space.” Cassie smiled. “Everything’s been put to bed. Well, everything I can manage anyroad.”

  “Good. I’ve just been having a natter with Lou. She said she’s been busy lately, made a point of saying it, too, but that she’d come and find me in a bit to talk about some things she has on her mind.”

  “Well, she won’t be busy anymore.” What’s on her mind? The murders? Is she planning to tell Doreen?

  “Oh.” Doreen folded her hands over her belly, her coat open, showing a white blouse beneath. “I won’t pry.” She pointed to the knitted willy warmer stall. “Brenda’s over there. Said she’d be talking to you about her client on Monday.”

  “Right.” Cassie’s shoulders slumped. There couldn’t be a problem else Brenda would have WhatsApped, but the mention of work had erased some of her good mood. Couldn’t she have just one day where it wasn’t mentioned? “Well, I’m off to see The Old Mystic for a laugh.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about her.” Doreen sucked her lower lip. “She’s a right creepy one, she is. I went to see her, God, must be a decade ago now, at her house, you know, so no one knew I’d gone. She told me a few things I’d kept a secret, and I fair shit myself, I did.”

  “So you think she actually knows things?”

  “She does, although she couldn’t tell my future for some reason, only my past. If you’re still of a mind to chat to her, be warned, you might come out a different person.” Doreen patted Cassie’s arm. “Speak to you soon.” She walked away, vanishing into a huddle of people close to The Beast.

  Cassie shivered, remaining in place. Should she go and see Mystic? There were so many things she wanted to ask about Dad, but then again, she couldn’t if she wanted his mistakes to remain hidden.

  Maybe she knows about them already.

  Cassie pulled herself upright and walked on with a ‘no one tells me what to do’ attitude, skirting around the pegs in the ground from the ropes on Clive the Clown’s tent, then pausing in front of Mystic’s. The flap was closed, so someone must be inside. Cassie read the whiteboard easel with a poster stuck to it stating the prices.

  CRYSTAL BALL: £10

  PALM READING: £20

  TAROT CARDS: £25

  SOUL SEARCHING: £50

  Soul Searching? What the hell was that?

  “I know you’re out there, Cassie Grafton.”

  Cassie jumped, looking around, then eyed the flap. It didn’t have any gaps in it, so how the hell had Mystic seen her?

  “Come in. Soul Searching is what you need. A nudge to let you know your thoughts and emotions are telling you something.”

  Dread swirled in the pit of Cassie’s stomach, and she turned to walk away, needing to surround herself with people instead of feeling vulnerable and alone while a disembodied voice spoke to her.

  “If you walk away, you’ll make the biggest mistake of your life.”

  She paus
ed, her breath catching. The voice was wizened, strong yet calm, coming from a woman who commanded respect and inspired fear. Cassie hadn’t bothered visiting her when she’d taken over from Dad, the only resident she’d steered clear of to let them know she was in charge—Mam had advised her to leave the old woman be. Now, Cassie wished she’d ignored the advice and introduced herself so at least she wouldn’t be afraid. And she was afraid. Despite her bravado, the fear she inspired in people, she was uneasy.

  She glanced around. Typical. No one stood nearby, not even any kiddies wanting to see Clive, although laughter and clapping abruptly rang out inside his big top; the clown must be doing a show. Liz sat behind one of the tables in her tent, head bowed as she created a bouquet, and while Cassie could walk over there and ignore Mystic’s command, she didn’t.

  She reached out and drew the flap across, expecting a pentagram sprayed on the grass inside, candles lighting the place, a creepy vibe going on, but it was nothing like that. Two purple wingback armchairs sat adjacent to one another, a table in front of one, the top pulled over Mystic’s blanket-covered legs. A tall standard lamp with a purple velvet shade, tassels dangling, stood behind her, lighting the woman in a scarlet glow from what must be a red bulb. To the rear of the other chair, another lamp with a normal light, although it was low and only illuminated the seat. Cassie stepped inside and let the flap go, and the immense feeling of being trapped came over her.

  She wanted to run.

  “If you do, the past will only chase you,” Mystic whispered. “Better to be forewarned than go forth unaware.”

  Cassie cocked a hip, allowing her monster to stretch its legs, preparing herself to give the woman a piece of her mind for intimidating her like this. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “You, or Lenny’s creature inside you, don’t bother me, Grafton.” Mystic, her white wiry hair, long and spread out on her shoulders, beckoned her forward with a knobbly-knuckled hand, the fingers resembling claws, the nails silver talons. “Sit. Listen.” She paused. “And learn.”

  Drawn to the other chair, Cassie obeyed.

  “Money must cross my palm before we enter into the realm of the Unknown, its full title The Unknown to You, because you don’t have the gift. It’s known to me. I’m told things, sometimes after the fact, sometimes before.”

  Cassie took her purse from her jacket pocket, pissed off that she trembled. She snatched out fifty quid and placed it in Mystic’s outstretched hand.

  Mystic curled the notes into her fist—they crackled—then stuffed the money down the side of the seat cushion. “Knowing everything beforehand means I see outcomes, and if it turns out for the good, I remain silent. With Jess… She was supposed to be returned, but outside influences got in the way, as is sometimes the will of destiny and fate. I didn’t know who’d murdered her until after Brenda discovered it was Vance—The Unknown to You didn’t show me. It’s a veiled place, where people’s secrets are waiting to be discovered, and spirits remain close-lipped until they have a mind to pass them on.”

  “What did you mean when you said if I walk away it’ll be my biggest mistake?”

  Mystic smiled, her dark irises even darker from the red bulb. “What did you think I meant?”

  Frustrated, Cassie barked, “Walking away from this fucking tent, what else?”

  “It’s foolhardy to assume.”

  Cassie sighed.

  Mystic’s smile vanished. “What I meant was, if you walk away from the Barrington.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Laughter rasped out of the old woman. “Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about it. The business, it’s harder than you thought. Your feelings on being who you’ve become are harder to understand than you thought. There’s more murder than you thought.”

  That was true, but how did Mystic know? Did the ghosts from that shitty Unknown place tell her this? For God’s sake, ghosts didn’t even exist, so this silly cow must be guessing.

  “I never guess.” Mystic reached down the side of the chair and brought out a purple cloth. She flapped it so it billowed up then landed on the table. Next, she fished for a crystal ball.

  “I’m not bloody paying you another tenner,” Cassie said, aggrieved the old bat wanted to scam her.

  “It’s in the Soul Searching price. Tsk. So quick to judge; a downfall, perhaps.”

  Cassie ignored her and waited while the creepy tart stared into the ball of glass held aloft, the only thing inside it Mystic’s skewed face from the other side. No revelations playing out, no swirling mist or floating clouds. Like Dad had said, Cassie certainly didn’t want to believe anything that came out of this baggage’s mouth.

  “Yet Lenny Grafton believed it all, because I proved I spoke the truth.” Mystic lowered the ball.

  What? Dad had gone to see her? And how is she reading my mind?

  “He visited me. I see he didn’t tell you, nor did he write it in his coded books.” Mystic put the ball away. “I’ve confirmed with the Unknown that something will happen today, a murder, but I don’t know who the killer is.”

  For God’s sake, another murder? “Convenient.”

  “So you might think. If I knew, I’d tell you…I think.” Mystic paused. “And those pigs…”

  Cassie’s stomach rolled over; she was super uncomfortable now. “What pigs?”

  “You can pretend with others but not with me. The four police officers. It’ll go away, courtesy of the paid pig. What you must concern yourself with now is this. Someone’s getting too big for their boots—not like Jason or Karen, and not like Zhang Wei.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  Mystic continued. “This person will cause problems, and it’s all to do with the well.”

  “The well?”

  Mystic mumbled some garbled words, eyes closed. Her lashes fluttered, then she stared straight at Cassie. “Never give the Barrington up. If you do, everyone will suffer. No matter how much it tests you, keep the crown. And it will test you. Many times over.”

  Cassie’s pulse throbbed in her neck.

  “What you thought about nature versus nurture.” Mystic sucked in a long breath. “It’s nurture. Lenny made you who you are.”

  Cassie couldn’t handle that truth so changed the subject. “What about the murder? Who is it? Can I stop it from happening? Or is it me who’s going to kill someone?”

  Mystic gasped and clutched her stomach.

  Cassie’s heart skipped a beat. “What’s the matter?”

  “I am afraid the knife has already entered. Once, twice, three times. And again. Again.”

  Cassie shot up and yanked the flap across. It was so bright outside compared to the murk of the tent, and she blinked to see properly. Liz was serving a customer, and kids with their parents streamed out of Clive’s tent, yapping excitedly. Cassie ran forward, heading for the crowd, everyone still mooching about, chatting or standing at stalls. Someone cheered on the Hook the Duck, a yellow duck dangling on the end of a wooden rod, water dripping.

  She ran to the right, planning to make a circuit of the inner horseshoe, seeking out anyone who’d been stabbed. On she went, searching the six people at the tombola, then glanced at Sharon doing the face-painting. A little girl smiled, her skin lilac, Sharon putting a black butterfly on her cheek, the mother hovering nearby.

  Cassie rushed on, reaching the bottom then going up the other side. Lou bustled in through the back of her pie and jam stall, handing over a jar of blackberry to a customer, the lid red-and-white checks. A weird, cracked icing figure with blonde hair was propped against one of the pies, in pink wellies and a tutu, Lou saying, “What a good little girl you are.”

  How insane it was to notice that when panic ruled. Cassie moved along, darting around people waiting for the merry-go-round, the piped music she’d loved as a child grating on her nerves. The other stalls had nothing much going on, so she spun to survey the throng in the middle.

  Nothing was happening.

  Mys
tic’s full of bollocks.

  A scream pierced the air above the conversations, then another, longer and shriller, and the Fayre-goers hushed, turning a one-eighty to see who’d cried out. Cassie did the same, and it didn’t take long to find where the commotion was. At the top of the horseshoe, in front of the hot dog van, people parted, stepping away from something or someone, a girl screaming again, holding her temples, a man wrapping an arm around her and leading her away. Cassie forged ahead, her heart beating so loud, adrenaline bringing on speed, and she stopped dead when she reached the space.

  Blood coated a woman’s midriff, her hand clutched to it, red, so red, scarlet pouring so fast she must have been stabbed several times. ‘Once, twice, three times. And again. Again.’ Where had she been between Mystic saying the knife had already entered and now? Behind the hot dog van? In Clive’s tent? No, she wouldn’t have been in there, she had no little kids.

  “Help me, Cass. Oh God, help me…” The woman stretched her other hand out, blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes rolling.

  This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

  The crowd seemed to disappear, and all that was left was Cassie and the stabbed lady, all sounds fading apart from the victim’s stuttered breathing and Cassie’s shallow gasps, then:

  “What the fuck?” A man.

  “Oh shit, she’s been stabbed!” A teenager.

  “Someone call an ambulance!”

  “Already did.”

  Then they faded, and the woman reached Cassie, grabbing at her coat collar, dropping to her knees. She stared up, straight into Cassie’s eyes, hers filling.

  “Tell me who did this to you,” Cassie said.

  “It’s too late,” the lady whispered, blood bubbling. “Too late.”

  Cassie went down with her, pushing her onto her back then taking her jacket off, pressing it to the injury. “It’ll be okay, I promise it’ll be okay.”