The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2)

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘Where, for God’s sake? The bloke’s got limited means.’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what we need to find out. We’re not going to get anywhere speculating, are we?’

  Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘If you ask me, she’s long dead. We’ve got more chance of finding Lord Lucan.’

  ‘Lord who?’

  ‘Some bloke who went missing years ago. Tried to kill his wife. Murdered his children’s nanny by mistake.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Didn’t he know what his wife looked like?’

  Ben smiled. ‘Makes you wonder.’

  ‘Look, Ben, if anything goes wrong, I’ll get out. I promise.’

  ‘And if you can’t?’

  ‘I’m resourceful.’

  ‘Not if you’re tied to a chair or chained to a radiator.’

  ‘I won’t be.’

  ‘At least take the R27.’

  ‘Not until I get him to trust me. If he finds it, that’s it. And then what will we do?’

  ‘I’d rather know what’s going on.’

  ‘And I’d rather Crowley didn’t.’

  ‘Shall I come into the pub with you?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To keep an eye on you.’ A slight pause, and then: ‘To keep an eye on him.’

  ‘No. You go home and wait. I’ll call a cab when I’m ready to leave.’

  ‘Please, Maddie. I don’t want to leave you alone with him.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’

  ‘I’m not going home. Not with the old man. It’s more than my sanity could stand. I’ll park up somewhere. If you need me, text me.’

  Maddie was about to protest, but something in Ben’s eyes stopped her. He looked so lost and frightened. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Okay. I’ll text if I need you.’

  Ben touched his cheek. ‘Promise?’

  Maddie straightened up. ‘I promise.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I c-care about you.’

  Maddie smiled. ‘I care about you, too.’

  ‘I mean, I r-really care.’

  Maddie opened the door. ‘If Crowley’s not in the pub, I’ll give it about an hour to see if he shows.’

  ‘Please be careful.’

  Maddie stepped out of the car. She closed the door and took several deep breaths. She put her bag over her shoulder and walked towards the pub. She didn’t see Ben pull out of the car park, or see him watching her so intently that he almost collided with a concrete bollard.

  Maddie hadn’t expected the pub to be so busy on a Sunday evening. There were four men sitting on stools at the bar, a couple playing pool, and about a dozen or so others parked on seats around four wooden tables. At first glance, Crowley didn’t seem to be among them.

  She went to the bar and ordered an orange juice. She then took her drink and sat by a window looking out onto the car park. She checked the time on her phone. 8:30 p.m. Right now, her father would be conducting a service at the Pentecostal church. He would be missing her every bit as much as she missed him, but she needed to do something positive with her life. Something worthwhile.

  Maddie was certain that Rhonda and Bubba would more than fill the space left by her departure. In fact, she was willing to bet that Rhonda and her father would be an item before long. Rhonda was clearly in love with him, and her father seemed defensive whenever Maddie mentioned Rhonda.

  She closed her bag, took a sip of orange juice and looked around the bar. She would give it until half nine and then text Ben to come and pick her up.

  He’s sweet on you.

  Her father’s voice. Maddie almost denied the thought out loud. Ben was a friend. A good friend. Penghilly’s Farm had cemented a bond between them that could never be broken.

  Why did he stammer after you kissed him on the cheek?

  He’s just worried about me.

  More than worried, I’d say.

  At least it shows he cares.

  Perhaps you feel the same way about him?

  She’d never really considered it before. She liked him. He was a good friend. But…

  Now you’re sounding as defensive as your father when he talks about Rhonda.

  A voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Hey, Frank, wanna play the winner? Ten quid a game?’

  Maddie looked towards the pool table. She saw a small bald guy greeting another man. A man with a bootlace tied around his neck and his hair slicked back with enough grease to make it glisten. Francis Arthur Crowley. Maddie’s mouth went dry.

  ‘I need a beer first,’ Crowley said. ‘I’ve had a shit day to end all shit days.’

  Bald guy laughed. ‘What’s the matter, Frank, been to confession?’

  ‘Worse.’

  Both the lads at the pool table laughed. Bald guy hit the cue ball so hard it almost bounced off the table. ‘God ain’t got enough time to listen to all his sins.’

  Crowley returned to the pool table a few minutes later with a pint of lager. He drank half of it without pause, belched, and put the glass down on a nearby table.

  ‘So, what’s rattled your cage?’ bald guy asked.

  ‘I had to go into work and unblock the bogs. On a fucking Sunday! There was a turd the size of a torpedo lodged in the waste pipe.’

  Bald guy laughed. ‘No shit, Frank.’

  ‘Do you know what that bitch Sykes said?’

  ‘She asked you to marry her?’

  ‘I’d rather marry my own mother.’

  ‘Now that is sick.’

  Crowley didn’t seem to care. ‘She told me if I ever turned up for work again without my maintenance overalls on, she would sack me. Sack me for what? Working on my day off? My overalls were in the bloody wash, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘You mean you actually wash your clothes, Frank?’ the other guy asked. In contrast to bald guy, this one had a good head of hair and a ponytail to boot.

  Crowley ignored him. ‘I’m going to have a few beers and a kebab. Then, first thing in the morning, I’m going to quit that fucking shit-pipe job.’

  ‘Smart move, Frank,’ bald guy said. ‘What are you going to do? Become a gigolo?’

  Crowley reached into his jeans’ pocket and put several notes on the edge of the table. ‘I’ll play you for fifty quid.’

  Bald guy whistled. ‘Have you robbed a bank or something?’

  Crowley puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve got money.’

  ‘You don’t normally have a pot to piss in, Frank,’ ponytail said.

  ‘Fifty quid. Are you two ginks playing or what?’

  Ponytail shook his head. ‘Not me, Frank. I’ve got a wife and kids at home. More than my life’s worth.’ He walked off to the bar and ordered a fresh drink.

  Crowley and bald guy finally reached an agreement to play for ten pounds a game. Maddie watched them shoot pool for the next half an hour. Crowley beat his opponent three times straight before the man threw his cue on the table and walked off to the bar like a petulant child. Crowley tucked his winnings in his pocket and looked around the room as if seeking a fresh opponent.

  Maddie took her chance. She put her bag over her shoulder and wandered over to the pool table. By the time she reached Crowley, her heart was bouncing around in her chest like a kid on a trampoline. ‘I’ll give you a game.’

  Crowley looked at Maddie as if she’d just materialised from an alien spaceship. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll play you at pool, if you want?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Unless you don’t play girls?’

  ‘I’ll play anyone who wants a game. Are you any good?’

  ‘Nope. But it’s just a bit of fun, right?’

  ‘That depends on what’s at stake.’

  ‘I don’t play for money.’

  ‘Fine by me. I wouldn’t want to take money off a lady.’

  Maddie ignored the patronising nature of his remark. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Crowley stroked the stubble on
his chin. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before.’

  Maddie resorted to the script Geoff had given her. ‘I’ve never been in here before. I was meant to be meeting someone. It looks as if he’s not going to show.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Just a mate.’

  ‘He must be mad.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Standing up a lovely girl like you.’

  Maddie ignored his weak attempt at flattery. ‘He’s not standing me up.’

  ‘I’m Frank.’

  ‘Maddie.’

  ‘Nice name. Is it short for Madam?’

  She was momentarily confused. And then she acknowledged his lame joke. ‘Yes. Proper little madam, me.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind an orange juice.’

  She watched Crowley amble over to the bar. How in God’s name was she going to pretend to like him, let alone lead him on?

  Crowley returned with drinks. ‘What do you do for a living?’

  Maddie switched to her rehearsed back story. ‘I work in an office.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Oxford.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Secretary.’

  ‘Do you like your job?’

  ‘It’s okay. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a maintenance man.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  Crowley downed half of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘About as interesting as mud. I work in a nursing home. I don’t wish to blow my own trumpet, but I’m wasted there.’

  ‘You must be good at fixing things? Good with your hands?’

  Crowley looked pleased. He grinned and exposed a row of chipped yellow teeth. ‘I can fix anything.’

  ‘I’m hopeless with stuff like that.’

  ‘I’ve got a mechanical brain.’

  ‘I can’t even make a jigsaw puzzle.’

  Crowley didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Mother always got me to fix things. Even when I was little. Which is just as well, seeing as Ronnie couldn’t fix a drink and dad buggered off when I was a kid.’

  ‘Ronnie?’

  ‘My smart arse brother.’

  Maddie sensed contempt in his voice. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad.’

  ‘Don’t be. Bugger was about as much use as a garden hose in the desert. Do you want to play pool, then?’

  ‘Just one game. I can’t stay long.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what: if you win, I’ll buy you a drink. If I win, you can owe me a drink.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Crowley looked as if Maddie had just announced their engagement. He set up the table, broke, and then cleared most of the balls. The nearest Maddie got to scoring was when she almost potted the black by mistake.

  After the game, Maddie laid her pool cue down on the table. ‘I need to practise.’

  ‘It’s all about seeing the whole picture. Looking at all the angles. Imagining where the ball will land up after you’ve hit it.’

  ‘Sounds difficult.’

  ‘Not really. It helps to have an eye for it, but it’s not rocket science. I could teach you, if you want?’

  ‘Not now. I really have to get going.’

  ‘Some other time?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  ‘No. I’ll get a taxi.’

  Crowley took a small business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. ‘That’s my number.’

  ‘Frank Crowley Maintenance? I thought you worked at a nursing home?’

  ‘That’s my day job. I do other stuff on the side. Anyway, I’m leaving soon. I’ve got bigger and better things to do.’

  ‘I’d be afraid to leave my job. I like the regular money too much.’

  Crowley grinned. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got money coming. Big bucks.’

  ‘Really?’

  Crowley nodded, like a man in possession of the world’s biggest secret. ‘Yep.’

  Maddie tried to look nonchalant. ‘Have you won the lottery?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Robbed a bank?’

  ‘Earned it. Fair and square.’

  ‘By fixing things?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Wow. A man of means,’ Maddie said, the words at odds with her thoughts. She opened her bag and dropped the card inside. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Will you call me?’

  She walked towards the door on legs that didn’t feel as if they belonged to her body anymore. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frank Crowley was in a positively good mood. He felt like climbing on top of his mobile home and sharing his good news with the whole world. Well, the residents of the caravan park, at least. He’d pulled. And a fine looking bird, too. Not the usual hog on heat found in Feelham’s watering holes. No, sir. This was a knock-your-eyeballs-out kinda girl. Too skinny, if you wanted to get picky, but pretty enough. Beautiful blonde hair and eyes like windows to his dreams.

  She won’t call you.

  Frank tried to ignore Pessimistic Voice.

  What’s a pretty girl like that going to want with an overweight slob like you, Frankie-boy?

  He grabbed a fresh can of beer from the fridge and sat down at a small table in his kitchenette. He popped the tab, took a swig, and looked down at his bloated belly. He just needed a good woman to help him keep things in check. Cook him some proper meals and give him some regular exercise in the bedroom. It was too damned easy for a single man to stop off at Pizza Express and get a seven inch with pepperoni, cheese and bacon. Too easy for a single man to spend his evenings down the pub shooting pool with a bunch of losers.

  Like attracts like.

  Frank didn’t care. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood. Not only had he pulled, he was also about to quit his job. If that didn’t call for three cheers and three beers, then nothing did. No more stupid nursing home. No more unblocking toilets and fiddling with faulty radiators. No more sweating his arse off up ladders tracing faulty wiring. No more oiling rusty hinges and watching rusty old folk catching flies. No, sir. His days of being underpaid, under-appreciated and under the cosh were gone.

  Frank was also buoyed by having the latest instalment of his money secreted in the Den at his mother’s house. He’d even had a look online at wigs and toupees, just to tide him over until he could afford a proper hair transplant. So far he’d got seven grand stashed away. Hardly enough for a decent motor, but that didn’t matter anymore than an extra wasp in a wasp’s nest. It was time to up the stakes. Time for that tired old nag he’d been backing all his life to be sent to the knacker’s yard in favour of a proper racing filly.

  But how much was his secret really worth? A hundred grand? Two hundred? More than that? After trawling the internet, he’d found a bungalow on the market similar to the one owned by the Target. It had been ‘priced realistically for a quick sale’. Six hundred and fifty thousand. Enough to make Frank imagine combing a full head of hair on a golden beach somewhere in the Mediterranean.

  On top of the four pints he’d downed in The Three Horseshoes, Frank was on his second can of Special Brew. There was a nice warm glow rising from the base of his belly, spreading goodwill to his brain. Unfortunately, his brain wasn’t spreading accurate thoughts around his head. By the time Frank had finished the second can and started on a third, the stakes had risen considerably. A cool million bucks. With a one-way ticket to Honolulu thrown in for good measure.

  He closed his eyes and imagined a harem of pretty girls hanging onto his arm and his every word. Fighting over the right to suck his dick. His imagination didn’t work as well for his libido as his stash of films did, but well enough to make his manhood sniff the zip on his jeans.

  ‘I’ll buy a boat,’ Frank told the empty mobile home. ‘Live the high life on the high seas.’

  But boats cost the earth. Or the ocean, depending on which way you loo
k at it.

  And wasn’t that the truth. Perhaps a guesthouse down in Margate or Brighton was a more realistic option. Anyway, he’d have plenty of time to decide what to do with his hard-earned money once the deal was sealed. The important thing right now was to strike while the iron was hot. And the iron was hotter than a hard-core film. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled the Target.

  The Target didn’t seem too pleased to hear from him; even less pleased to hear his demand for a cool half million pounds sterling. That was a shame. Perhaps a reality check might help to make the Target see reason. ‘I’ll give you a month to get the money. If you don’t, I’ll start talking to the cops.’

  No response.

  ‘You there?’

  A loud sigh.

  Frank’s mind rummaged for something to say that might provoke a response. ‘Perhaps I’ll give the Daily Mail a ring. They like a good story.’

  ‘Do you really think anyone’s going to listen to a fool like you?’

  Frank looked at the phone as if it had sprouted teeth and bitten him. ‘I’m not a fool.’

  ‘You are if you think I can raise that kind of money.’

  ‘You’ve got asserts.’

  ‘Asserts? What in God’s name are you talking about?’

  Frank drew on the patience of a thousand clipped ears from his mother. ‘Asserts. Your house for starters.’

  The Target laughed. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to sell my house, do you?’

  Frank did. And he was in no mood to play games. ‘Yep. And you will. Unless you want your grubby little secret going public.’

  The Target was silent for long enough to worry Frank. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘It will take a lot more than a month to sell my house.’

  Frank’s thoughts waded through a Special Brew bog. ‘Liar.’

  ‘I’m not lying. It’ll take months to find a buyer. Then there are surveys, searches and legalities.’

  ‘Don’t start wrapping things up in fancy words. You might think I’m stupid, but I ain’t.’

  ‘You’re a filthy little pervert. I know that.’

  ‘I don’t care what you call me. You’ve got a month.’

  ‘I’ll give you another ten thousand. Final offer.’

  Frank laughed and almost wheezed himself into a hernia. ‘You’ve got a sense of humour; I’ll give you that much. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you sign the house over to me.’