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

be associated with someone who’d needed to be dealt with in that way, ashamed their mam had done something so bad she’d had to be silenced.

Sharon would miss her pal despite being sick of her lately. They’d grown in different ways over the years, Karen stuck in time, thinking she was still young and able to boss her way around the Barrington as if she were in her twenties, well able to give someone a good old punch. Sharon, on the other hand, had mentally moved on from those days as soon as Lenny had appeared on the scene, glad she didn’t have to bully people or poke her nose into their business. She’d made out she was still interested—she didn’t want to get in Karen’s bad books—but deep inside, she was tired of the drama. She’d preferred the times they’d taken a Victoria sponge round to houses and helped people through the bad days. Tea and cake, the fixer of all issues, not fists and mean words.

She’d been bloody lucky that Cassie had been lenient on her. Who’d told her Sharon was against taking the estate back and didn’t want any part of it? Who even knew, apart from her and Karen, what her friend had planned to do? As far as Sharon was aware, it was between them, no one else involved. Someone had Sharon’s back, and she’d like to thank them, but it wasn’t likely she’d ever find out who it was.

Had Karen been whispering in certain people’s ears without Sharon’s knowledge, asking them if they’d switch allegiance should she retake the crown? Dangerous, that, and she couldn’t imagine Karen being so lax in that department. People were loyal to Cassie and would run to her at the slightest sniff of foul play.

It had to be Brenda then, being a tall blade of grass—but then a grass she wasn’t if she’d done it for Sharon’s benefit, to stop Cassie hurting her. Sharon wasn’t dim, she knew damn well Karen had told Brenda shit she shouldn’t have, sharing secrets that were supposed to be kept quiet because Lenny had ordered it. Sharon couldn’t blame Brenda for opening her gob to Cassie. She’d been in deep with Lenny, classed as a friend as well as an employee, and she was in deep with Cassie an’ all. Who’d go against either of them if it meant meeting that Marlene woman? That was one of the main reasons why Sharon hadn’t wanted to reclaim the estate. She wanted to live, not be murdered by some unknown bint who must enjoy killing if she’d agreed to be paid to do it.

She shuddered and jumped at the sound of a man in a balaclava slamming the removal lorry’s back doors shut. It could be classed as normal, the blokes in those woolly masks, considering it was snowing and so cold, but this was a message from Cassie, showing the residents of the street just who was taking Karen’s stuff away: Look what happens when you break the rules.

Sighing, Sharon left the window and switched the telly on, her Spam, gherkin, and brown sauce sandwich not settling too well in her stomach. Maybe the bread was the culprit. Wheat was a bit of a bugger to her as she’d aged, but then again, the vinegar from the gherkins probably wasn’t helping, all that acid.

She hadn’t bothered going into work, not after she’d received such bad news from Cassie, and anyroad, she’d be putting in her notice tomorrow. At last, she could retire, and besides, work wouldn’t be the same without Karen there. They’d been in the supermarket from when it was a Kwik Save, but it was now an ASDA. So many memories. Best she end that chapter of her life and begin a new one.

She sat on the sofa and picked up her cheeky daytime vodka and tonic in lieu of a coffee (one of many she’d swigged), needing the alcohol to give her the strength to get through the coming minutes, hours, and days, getting used to a life without Karen in it.

Loneliness beckoned.

The local lunchtime news came on, Look North, with a blast of music that jarred Sharon’s bones, and she sat bolt upright at a picture of Mr Plod, Bob Holworth, in the top-right corner, her heart rate thundering. A new, blonde newsreader faced the camera, her features rigid, displaying no emotion, perhaps readying herself to deliver the latest.

“A police officer has disappeared in suspicious circumstances. A source close to the investigation said his patrol car’s last location was on the B6079, heading towards Worksop. After that, they lost contact with him.”

The woman stared at the viewers, stern, and a bit scary if Sharon were honest. She much preferred the weather lady. At least she cracked a smile.

“PC Bob Holworth’s last visit was at Grafton’s Meat Factory, one of his usual night shift patrol checks. Officers have been there to question the manager, Joe Wilson, who said: ‘Nowt has happened here for a night-time police visit to be necessary. All alarms were still set this morning when I arrived, so no break-in.’” Stern Blonde blinked as Bob’s image was exchanged for a pile of ash and wood, some bamboo canes in the background, sticking up as if waiting for a tent to cover them. “Also, earlier today, an allotment shed was burnt to the ground. A body was inside, that of ex-DCI Robin Gorley. With two police officers in the news, there’s speculation the cases are linked.”

She waffled some more, but Sharon wasn’t listening. What was going on? She knew Bob well, had warned him of any scuffles that were about to go down on the estate so he could make himself scarce, keeping him from having to cover owt up. If he wasn’t around when shit went down, he couldn’t report owt to his superiors, could he. Not that he would, Lenny had got to