Chapter Two
Under the light of a low-watt bulb that dangled from the barn ceiling, Mr Lyons sat as though he’d positioned himself against the wall in the far corner—like he’d just happened to want to take a rest for a minute then had promptly died, his head tilted to one side, sleep dragging his cheek to sit on his shoulder. Except, because Edwin knew Gunner’s preferred method of killing someone, he was certain that sleep hadn’t done any dragging at all. Mr Lyons’ neck would have been broken. Less mess that way, Gunner always boasted.
The deceased’s face bore no signs of damage from either fists or weapons. Another of Gunner’s trademarks. He beat the shit out of people but never touched their faces. Edwin could only imagine the state of My Lyons’ body beneath that black pin-striped suit and white shirt. Bruises in all colours probably drenched his skin, the poor bastard.
Again, why didn’t I leave this job back then, when Gunner’s real position in the workforce was revealed? When I realised Gunner wasn’t just your average bloke working at a builder’s merchants?
I don’t fucking know, man.
He shoved those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on the present.
The only telltale signs that Mr Lyons was dead were that his chest didn’t rise and fall, his face had a grey pallor, and the outside of his lips bore a blue tinge. Oh, and that his staring eyes were covered in some kind of creepy white film.
It hit Edwin fully, then, that the old dodger was really dead.
Dead.
Bile churned, rising up his windpipe and exiting his mouth before he’d had the chance to stop it. Farrow’s lips widened considerably as he laughed like the proverbial fucking drain.
“No turning back now,” Farrow said. “You’ve left a goodly amount of evidence there on the floor.”
Edwin stared at the bright splash of egg-yolky bile now sitting on a pile of dust that must have been swept up by the last person to use the barn, a coarse-bristled brush beside it, the tip of the long handle resting against the wooden wall. Did this place belong to anyone, or had it been abandoned? Would a farmer or one of his hands waltz in and catch him and Farrow here? See Mr Lyons in all his deathly glory?
All questions he would have contemplated on the journey here if his goddamned brain had allowed it.
“But don’t worry,” Farrow said. “This is my place, so no coppers or whatever will come snooping round. Just so you know, though, that bile of yours will dry up but can be analysed at a later date if need be.”
Edwin didn’t need Farrow to spell it out. He heard what his boss was really saying. Edwin would be prime suspect number one should Farrow wish it.
“So.” Farrow planted meaty hands on even meatier hips. “You’ll be helping me get rid of this piece of shit after all, won’t you.”
Edwin could still walk away. Could still hitch a lift back to Kortley—or even run there—then go into the police station and tell them what was going on. He could explain he was employed to advise Farrow on his businesses—he’d have to make out he knew nothing of the other business, the shady shit—and that Farrow had asked for his opinion on what to do with his barn and they’d found a body. That Edwin had brought up bile and that was why they’d find evidence of him having been there. That he had no idea why Mr Lyons’ body was there—no idea at all.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Farrow chortled. “I can see your brain cells working from here. Whatever you say, I’ll contradict it. I’ll even go as far as to say that at eight o’clock this morning—which, by the way, was when Gunner brought our friend here—that you and me were here with Lyons instead. That Lyons was going to buy my barn but he went all weird on us and struck out. There was a fight, and you broke his neck. Manslaughter, even in self-defence, carries quite a stretch in the nick.”
Edwin had no doubt the authorities would believe Farrow. He was an upstanding member of society, as far as the townsfolk not in his inner circle knew. He gave to local charities, was a personal friend of the mayor. He was a goddamned squeaky clean bloke on the outside. On the inside, though…
“You don’t stand a chance, you know that,” Farrow said. “So how about you grab under his armpits and I grab his feet, eh?”
The idea of touching Mr Lyons… Edwin’s mind raced with what the hell they were going to do with him once they had him in their hands. Farrow obviously had a plan—probably what he’d been thinking about on the way here—but not being privy to it didn’t sit well. Fuck, even being privy to it didn’t sit well, but having some kind of notice as to what was about to happen would be better than none at all.
“Where are we taking him?” Edwin asked, aware that he’d said ‘we’, and that ‘we’ meant he’d subconsciously agreed to do whatever Farrow wanted. Shit a damn brick. “He’s a small bloke, but will he fit in your car boot? Because your boot’s small, too, and I’m thinking he won’t go in there.” He stopped himself from saying anything else. He’d already rambled enough, giving Farrow a massive inkling as to how he was really feeling.
Don’t let him see you’re rattled. Maintain an edge of don’t-give-a-fuck and this-isn’t-bothering-me-at-all.
“Oh, he’ll fit.” Farrow sniffed. Grinned, displaying pure white veneers. “He’ll be stiff as a board with rigor by now. We can snap him, know what I mean?”
Edwin’s guts contracted, and more bile threatened to come up. “Righty ho,” he managed. He’d wanted to say something else, like: Oh, my fucking God, are you serious, man? Or: I’m not snapping no dead body, not for you or anyone. But, yeah, ‘righty ho’ had come out. Great choice of words there. “Don’t much fancy snapping him myself, though, boss. Not for my first time at any rate.”
Farrow smiled again—seemed he enjoyed showing his teeth in situations like this. “All right, I’ll let you off. Ease you into this lark slowly, like. You’ll be a pro in no time, you mark my words. You were born for this kind of thing.”
No, I was born to run in the fields and earn an honest living, and somewhere along the way I got greedy, wanted riches instead, and now look where I’m at.
I could still walk away.
Could you?
Farrow gripped Mr Lyons’ ankles. “Dear oh Lord, he is stiff. Come on, Ed, get a shift on.”
Getting a shift on would be perfect, stripping out of his clothes then dropping them somewhere in the woods out the back of the barn. Burning the fuckers until they turned to ash, then letting his wolf take over, sprinting off to somewhere safe—somewhere miles from Kortley where he could start again.
“Don’t bother,” Farrow said.
“What, you don’t want me to help you move him now?” Edwin asked.
“No, don’t bother doing what you were thinking,” Farrow said. “I’ll be patient with you over this, because I was young once and I encountered my first dead body once, but if you test my patience, get on my last nerve like Lyons here did… Well. You know.”
Edwin knew. He’d be better off not answering Farrow with regards to what the gangster had just said, making out he hadn’t been thinking what Farrow thought he’d been thinking. “Thanks. For not making me snap him.” He smiled, albeit forced, and walked over to join Farrow, legs unsteady, as though no bones were hidden beneath his skin. He reached down and pushed away his feelings of revulsion, fear, and remorse. Dipped his hands under Mr Lyons’ armpits then looked at Farrow for further instructions.
“On the count of three,” Farrow said. “One, two, three…”
My Lyons was surprisingly heavy, considering how slender he’d been in life. The phrase ‘dead weight’ was true, then. The word ‘dead’ ricocheted around Edwin’s mind, and he fought the need to drop Mr Lyons and run. His wolf was howling, desperate for Edwin not to continue with what he was doing, but what good was his wolf to him now? It wouldn’t get him out of this hole, just deeper into it if he shifted then savaged Farrow’s neck. His bile would still be on the floor. Hell, for all he knew, any number of his hairs had fallen out already, or something off the bottom of his shoe that would point to him being here. No, his wolf needed to shut up and leave him alone. It could have a go at him later, when he was by himself in bed and crapping his pants when the true enormity of what was going on here sank in.
Farrow took the lead, walking backwards out of the barn and heading towards his car. The slice of light coming out through the barn door provided illumination, but once they’d gone a few feet the darkness took over. Mr Lyons was in a rigid L shape from where he’d been sitting, back against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him. Edwin kept expecting the dead man’s arse to sag, his body to bow, but he was stuck in this position until whatever the fuck happened to a body after rigor made him pliant again.
Edwin told himself he was carrying something else—a roll of carpet or a small bale of hay, perhaps—and by the time they got to the rear of the car and they lowered Mr Lyons to the ground, he let out a long breath and turned his back on the scene, not seeing anything of the vista in front of him—too dark. All he saw was an image of his own creation—a jail cell and a copper continually jangling the keys to Edwin’s freedom.
He heard Farrow click his key fob to open the boot. The creak of that boot opening seemed loud—too loud—and then Farrow cleared his throat.
“It’s all very well taking a breather, mate, but I need a hand,” Farrow said.
Edwin took a deep snatch of air then turned to face his boss. After Farrow’s nod at Mr Lyons, in the meagre light floating out of the boot, Edwin tucked his hands beneath those stiff, dead armpits again and helped haul the body upwards. They manoeuvred the right angle of the corpse into the car, Lyons’ arse pointing towards the back seat, his head resting on one side of the boot opening and his feet jutting out of the other. Edwin let the man go and shuddered, glad he’d successfully hidden the involuntary movement.
“Right, time to do a bit of snapping.” Farrow pushed the sleeves of his jacket and shirt up his arms.
Edwin stepped back, giving the impression he was making more room for Farrow. In reality, it was so he could stare at the ground without being seen and poke his fingers into his ears. Doing that didn’t stop him hearing, though, it just muffled the sound a little. A bout of shivers took hold of him then, and he moved back a tad more, glancing at the surrounding area.
A grey-white wolf stood beside the barn door.
A wolf Edwin knew all too well.
The animal stared at him, its mouth open, just like it would be had it been the person himself looking Edwin’s way. A slack jaw from shock. Edwin’s dropped, too, for the same reason, and his heart rate picked up, the speed feeling too fast for his body to cope with.
What the fuck’s Stuart doing here? And how the hell do I explain what he’s just seen me do?