The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3), Emmy Ellis [electric book reader txt] 📗

thought of him, was still at large. Lenny had never approached Robin with information to the contrary, and Robin had scoured each The Life for hidden messages, ones Lenny had told Karen Scholes to write, but nowt had stood out. Someone out there still had to pay for their part in what had happened to Jess, but it wasn’t Robin’s responsibility anymore, and when it had been, he’d shushed it up through fear of Lenny turning nasty on him.

Or on Melinda and the children.

There was no way he could have explained things to Lou, therefore, he’d waved her concerns away as if they didn’t matter, crippling himself with remorse over it at the time and every day since.

There was something else his wife wasn’t aware of. That he’d worked so hard, gone out to cover shit up for Lenny off shift, so she wasn’t killed, so their kids didn’t meet Marlene. How could he tell her, though? She thought he was a true copper, blue running through his veins, not one as bent as a nine-bob note.

Ever since Jess’ case had been closed, Robin had avoided Lou Wilson as much as he could after that cringe-inducing meeting where she’d wanted answers. The woman was broken yet determined, and the times she’d looked at him in The Donny once Jess had been laid to rest, well, it had scored a slice in his heart, and he’d wanted to tell her: “See that man you’re with, the one paying for all the drinks? Lenny fucking Grafton? He stopped me looking for Jess. The problem lies with him, not me.”

There was no doubt about it—she was right; her silent stare of reproach before she’d left the interview room that final time was right. He’d failed her, failed that child, and Joe. Himself. And all because he feared Lenny Grafton, feared the man telling the superintendent about what Robin had done with that evidence, feared for his family’s lives.

So, Melinda rambling on at him… It was nowt compared to the remorse prodding him more and more each day. That was the problem with retiring. You had more time to think, your mind less full of cases, and it always strayed to what he should have done—ploughing on to find Rear Van Man despite Lenny telling him to ‘back the fuck off or you’ll regret it’.

Jess’ ghost haunted him. He swore he saw her every so often, always three years old, always in that bloody rainbow coat and those pink wellies. She appeared in the market, weaving between the stalls, a bag of sweets clutched tight—Jazzles. In The Donny, perched on a barstool, a packet of cheese and onion Walkers in her hand. In the Jade Garden, stretching her chubby mitts up to the counter to take a lollipop from Li Jun, always a pink one. And every time, no matter where she was, she glanced over her shoulder at Robin and frowned, her stare as reproachful as her mother’s.

That frown cut him to the bone: You didn’t find me in time. You listened to Uncle Lenny.

Robin placed his cup down and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Dear God…”

He took a shuddering deep breath and stood from his deckchair, his back clicking along with his knees. Sixty-odd but feeling eighty. He folded the chair and leant it against the wall. Shuffled to look out of the little dusty window.

Barney Lipton, a seventy-something and sprightlier than Robin, his bald head covered by a red beanie (complete with a white bobble on top, one his wife had knitted for him), was over the way in his plastic-paned greenhouse, tending to the plants he managed to keep alive even in winter. He had a knack with growing, did Barney, installing a heating system in there that mimicked good weather, the warmth of the sun. He passed runner beans to Robin every now and then, who gave them to Melinda, never putting her straight that he hadn’t grown them.

Another lie to add to his long list.

A tap on the shed door startled him—it was rare for anyone to come here, apart from other gardeners, and Barney was the only one around at the minute. Robin remained where he was, ignoring the intrusion into his retrospective thoughts. Barney glanced over. His eyes widened, and he dipped his head and tugged at a length of bamboo cane as if he didn’t want owt to do with the person who’d come calling.

Odd. Unless it was that prat from the council, the one who’d warned them the allotment might be closed down. Perkins, his name was. A jobsworth.

Another knock, and Robin sighed. For Pete’s sake, not only did his mind and his wife insist on keeping him from peace, a visitor did as well. He went to draw the chain across—you couldn’t be too careful, and he should know, being an ex-copper, so he’d put one on a while back—then changed his mind about undoing it. Better to keep it there and face whoever it was through the gap.

Speaking to them meant letting all the heat out, and he tsked at that.

He opened the door as much as it could go, two to three inches, and his heart sank, skipping a beat or five, his tummy flipping. Lou Wilson stood there, her eyes nowt like they usually were (sad and lifeless when she wasn’t looking at him or venomous with hatred for him when she was). Today they held anger, and he reckoned it glinted, warning him this wasn’t a nice and friendly social visit. When would that ever be true, though? She detested him, and he couldn’t blame her.

Shit.

“Yes?” he said, annoyed his voice shook.

As far as she was aware, he was beyond reproach, so why had she come?

She straightened her sparrow shoulders. “Let me in. I want a word, and it’s been a long time coming.”

Fuck, had she