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

by Mark Tilbury

  He grinned at his reflection in the tarnished wardrobe mirror. Cool Dude grinned back. Things were looking up at last. He had a pretty girl waiting in the wings, Mother and the Target both where he wanted them, and a future brighter than a film star’s smile.

  His imagination took a peek inside his fantasy guesthouse in Brighton. Maddie cooking them sumptuous meals. Meals that made Mother’s steak and kidney pudding seem like offal. Healthy stuff, too, with plenty of vegetables to sink his new set of designer gnashers into. Maddie would be forever grateful to him for rescuing her from her drab existence. Maybe they could even give Mother an attic room. Sell her grotty terraced house and put the money towards her keep. Maddie could look after her whilst Frank got on with the important things, like greeting guests and making films of them naked in the showers. And not just in the showers. No, sir. All over the place. Anywhere he could put a camera. Headboards, smoke alarms, artificial flower arrangements, sprinkler systems, picture frames.

  Better shake a leg, Frank. You don’t want to keep Maddie waiting.

  Frank stumbled out of his imaginary guesthouse. ‘Maddie.’ He tasted the name on his lips. To be honest, he didn’t care too much for the name. He preferred pretty names. Warm names. Like Charlotte. A name you could snuggle up to on a cold night and wrap your arms around. It was also the name of his inflatable doll.

  Madeline’s quite a nice name.

  Frank tried it for size. Not much better. Too formal. If they got married, Maddie could change her name by deed poll to something he liked. Charlotte, for instance.

  What about something slutty? Britney?

  Maybe. Especially if she fulfilled his ambition to make a film involving a chambermaid. He could see Britney cleaning one of the rooms in her tight chambermaid’s outfit, bending over the beds, her tiny skirt rising up to reveal her French knickers.

  Frank wanted to relieve himself, but time was not on his side. He had a date at The Three Horseshoes at seven. It was almost half six. He wanted to make a good first impression on Britney.

  Second impression. And don’t forget, her name isn’t Britney.

  Frank wouldn’t. She was his Maid Madeline. He popped a can of Fosters and chugged some of the amber nectar. None of the strong stuff tonight. He needed a clear head to impress Britney—

  Madeline.

  Yes, yes, and double yes! He knew what the tart’s name was. He didn’t need it ramming down his throat and ruining his good mood. He turned sideways and checked himself in the mirror for the umpteenth time. His belly looked bloated. He tried to suck it in, but only deprived himself of oxygen. He told himself to stop being so paranoid. If she didn’t like him, she wouldn’t be meeting him again, would she?

  His reflection didn’t seem convinced. Still, at least he could hide his bulk beneath a winter coat. That gave him plenty of time to get in shape before the summer forced him into tee shirts and shorts. He turned away from the mirror and finished off his can. He fed a couple of tablets of Airwaves gum into his mouth. He didn’t want to go and meet Maid Madeline smelling of booze, did he?

  By the time Frank reached The Three Horseshoes, his already dodgy stomach was performing high-wire tricks. What should he say? Should he kiss her? Hold her hand?

  Don’t say anything stupid.

  ‘I ain’t used to socialising.’

  Let her do the talking. Show an interest in what she says. Ask her what she likes to do in her spare time. Find out what movies she likes. What music she listens to.

  Good advice. Frank had met a girl once through an online dating agency. Perfect Partners. What a joke. The girl had waddled into the restaurant looking twenty years older and five stones heavier than her Perfect Partners profile picture. She had then lied to Frank about having no up-to-date photos of herself. Frank was no oil painting. He wasn’t even a rough sketch if you wanted to cut right down to the canvas, but at least he tried to be honest.

  He’d never put his trust in online dating again. Ever. The internet had its advantages, especially as far as porn sites were concerned, but matching you up with women wasn’t one of them. No, sir. Frank liked to see the menu these days before getting food poisoning.

  At least he’d already met Maid Madeline. And she was beautiful. Lovely hair. Lovely eyes. A body to die for.

  A body to capture on film.

  Frank licked his lips. He took several deep breaths and tried not to let his nerves get the better of him. He desperately wanted to pour half a bottle of vodka down his neck. Never mind Dutch courage; he needed some good old fashioned Russian courage. He’d had very little experience with women, and that was the stark-naked truth of it.

  If any.

  He’d kissed a girl once. At school. Sarah something-or-other. She’d had a stinking cold and her breath smelled of chicken soup. Apart from that, his only other ‘experience’ of a woman was with the online hippopotamus who’d turned up in his shopping cart via Perfect Partners.

  He switched off the engine and fought a desperate battle with his cravings for booze and fags.

  Make sure you’re nice to her. Don’t let your temper out of the bag, even if she says something you don’t like.

  Frank looked in the rear-view mirror, as if the voice in his head was sitting on the backseat. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  Weeknights were quiet, especially so in the run-up to Christmas. It was as if people were saving their money to go mad for a week. Frank couldn’t see the point of it. He hated Christmas. All those gaudy decorations and stupid blinking lights. Strangers wishing you well and pretending to care.

  Christmas also reminded him how much of a disappointment his childhood had been. Going back to school in the New Year, listening to the other kids bragging about how much stuff they’d been given. New bikes, new clothes, new games. Frank was lucky to get a pair of slippers and an orange in his stocking. Mother had tried her best, but with no husband to support her, she’d barely been able to feed them, let alone spoil them.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, but didn’t light it. He didn’t want his breath stinking of fags. If the relationship progressed as he hoped it would, she would just have to get used to it. He would never give up smoking again. Not after last time. He’d endured months of living hell as he’d battled his addiction. The nicotine patches hadn’t made a scrap of difference. To make matters worse, they’d irritated his skin and made him wonder if they might actually be capable of causing skin cancer. He’d resorted to ripping the damned things off at regular intervals to allow himself a proper intake of nicotine.

  To add insult to injury, Dumb Quack had admonished him for gaining weight. Not only had Frank been driven to distraction by his cravings, he’d also turned to junk food to compensate. Dumb Quack had called it comfort eating. Which was a strange term, considering he drew no comfort from the fact that his jeans no longer fitted him and he’d lost several buttons on his favourite shirt. On his last ‘smoke-free’ consultation with Dumb Quack, he’d suggested Frank might want to eat a piece of fruit every time he craved a cigarette. Frank didn’t like fruit, other than the stuff Mother put in her homemade jams. He’d walked out of the surgery without another word, gone to Blakely’s Newsagents and bought a pack of Marlboro Lights.

  The taste of that first cigarette, after months of abstention, had been sublime. He’d almost floated back to his car, quite literally, on a cloud. Frank just had to face facts: he had an addictive nature. Cigarettes, junk food, booze and porn. It was more than likely due to an impoverished childhood. He had his father to thank for that. Or lack of father, to be precise. Perhaps his mother’s spiteful tongue had to share some of the blame regarding the desertion, but she certainly hadn’t frogmarched Samuel Crowley to the door and told him to run off with a whore. No, sir. He’d ploughed that particular field with his own tractor.

  Frank leaned back and sucked on the unlit cigarette. All things considered, this had been a good year. A hard year, too, but you never caught a fi
sh without casting a net.

  Next year will be even better, if you play your cards right.

  Frank grinned at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Next year he would be rich. Richer than he’d ever imagined. No more shitty mobile home. No more stupid job. And a beautiful girlfriend to hang onto his every word. Frank had already flirted with the idea of writing scripts for Maid Madeline. Dirty words for a dirty girl. Just a little something to spice up the films as she acted out the role of a domestic slave in her pretty little chambermaid’s outfit. He’d even dabbled with poetry. Nothing too flash. Something he might share with Maid Madeline in the future. When he felt more at ease to reveal his true nature.

  How I long, to see your thong, it’s where I belong. Very impressive, Frankie-boy. You’ll blow her mind with that one.

  ‘It’s not finished.’

  Doesn’t look much like it’s even started.

  Frank didn’t care. No one ever learned to run before they could walk. He turned his mind back to Maid Madeline. How old was she? Frank reckoned early twenties. Still young enough to be impressionable. Just like the girl who lived three doors away from him at the mobile home site. Tina. Frank had struck up a relationship with her after mending her washing machine. She’d been a very grateful girl. A single mum with nothing in her purse but a wish list. Frank had only charged her twenty quid, plus the cost of a new door seal. He’d had his eyes on a much bigger prize. The chance to get himself access to Tina’s home when she wasn’t in.

  Mother always said you made your own luck. So Frank had. By blocking Tina’s waste pipe with a potato. Tina had taken the bait as expected. She’d asked him to investigate why her dishwater wasn’t draining away. Frank had persuaded Tina to let him have a key. Check out the problem whilst she was at work.

  Frank had wasted no time. He’d taken Tina’s key into Feelham and got a spare one cut at the Key Chain. One to allow him future access. He’d then driven back to Tina’s home, unblocked the drain before you could say gurgle, and installed a tiny camera in the smoke alarm above Tina’s bed. He’d left a note explaining that he’d unblocked the drain, and that she needed to be more careful what she put down her sink in future. He’d signed off by saying he wouldn’t charge her this time.

  By the time evening rolled around, Frank was sitting in his front room watching Tina undress on his TV screen. The wonders of modern technology. Anybody with an aptitude for gadgets could be a spy these days. He watched her examine herself in a full-length mirror.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely arse,’ he whispered. ‘Good enough to eat truffles from.’

  Unaware of Crowley’s perverted comment, Tina made a face and mouthed something.

  Frank was frustrated that he had no audio, but at least he had a vivid imagination. By the time Tina had finished examining herself, Frank’s mind was catching up with his eyes. Tina invited Frank to lick her back and bite her buttocks. Frank liked the idea of biting women. He remembered a scene in the film Cape Fear, when Robert Di Niro handcuffed a woman’s hands behind her back. He’d bitten a chunk of flesh from her face before raping her. Frank liked that brutal scene a little more than he cared to admit.

  He watched Tina walk out of the bedroom and return fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around her head. She sat on the bed and examined her breasts. Frank let his imagination run riot. What was the point of having a wild horse if you didn’t let it gallop? He unzipped his jeans and joined Tina on the bed. The walls didn’t have ears; they had eyes.

  Someone banged on the windscreen, jerking Frank back to reality. Bald guy, better known to Frank as Mick Myers. He wound down the window. ‘Piss off. I’m waiting for my girlfriend.’

  ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, Frank. Not unless you want to count that blow-up doll of yours.’

  Frank grinned. ‘Think what you like. Now bugger off. She’ll be here in a minute.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ben looked out the front room window. ‘The cab’s here.’

  Maddie’s stomach flipped over. ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

  ‘Now remember,’ Geoff said. ‘Don’t let him lead you. Make sure you control the conversation at all times.’

  Maddie put her phone in a small clutch bag with her purse. ‘He’s not the brightest spark on the planet.’

  ‘Sickos are clever in many ways,’ Geoff said. ‘Don’t be fooled by his demeanour.’

  Ben agreed. ‘I read about this serial killer once. Ted Bundy. He used to wear a plaster cast on his arm to make himself appear vulnerable.’

  Maddie walked into the hallway. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  Ben followed her. ‘You text me straight away if there’s any trouble.’

  Maddie nodded. She needed the loo. She needed to eat. She needed to throw up. She’d managed two slices of burnt toast for breakfast, and a banana around tea time.

  ‘Are you all right? You don’t look too good.’

  Maddie reached up to open the front door. ‘Thanks. You really know how to cheer a girl up when she’s going on her first date.’

  ‘I didn’t mean… oh, just ignore me. It’s only because I...’

  Maddie waited a few moments. And then: ‘What is it?’

  Ben seemed fascinated by his shoes. ‘I…’

  ‘Ben?’

  Ben took a deep breath and ran his forefinger around the inside of his shirt collar. ‘I th-think a lot of you.’

  ‘I think a lot of you, too.’

  The taxi honked its horn. Maddie leaned forward and kissed Ben on the cheek. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Sometimes I w-wish I’d never asked you to come and work w-with me.’

  ‘Thanks very much. You asked me to.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. It’s just… oh, forget it, ignore me, I’m being stupid as usual. I’m no good with words.’

  Maddie opened the door. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She stepped out into the icy air and closed the door behind her. She didn’t see him punch the wall. Or ask the empty hallway why he couldn’t just tell her the truth: that he loved her more than life itself.

  By the time she reached The Three Horseshoes, Maddie’s stomach was cramping. She paid the driver, got out of the cab and walked across the car park. As she neared the entrance to the pub, Crowley called to her from a parked car. Maddie jumped and spun around.

  Crowley made a big deal of looking at his watch. He grinned at her. ‘You’re cutting it fine.’

  Maddie took several deep breaths. ‘Sorry. I got held up.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a bank.’

  Maddie tried to make sense of what the grinning idiot meant. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You said you got held up. Bank. Get it?’

  A psychopath who thinks he’s a comedian. ‘Oh. Right. Very good.

  Crowley seemed pleased. ‘Jump in.’

  ‘I thought we were going for a drink?’

  ‘We are. Later. There’s something I want to show you first.’

  Don’t let him lead you. ‘I need a drink first.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘And I need something to eat. I haven’t eaten all day.’ Closer to the truth.

  Crowley seemed to stall. Maddie seized her chance. ‘I get really grouchy if I don’t eat. You wouldn’t like me at all.’

  ‘I like a feisty woman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like this one. Either you take me for a drink and a bag of nuts, or I’m going on my own. It’s up to you. I don’t care.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Keep your hair on. Jeez!’

  ‘I split up with a boyfriend once for not feeding me.’

  By the time they sat at a table near the window, Maddie’s imagination was running riot. Conjuring up macabre images of what Crowley wanted to show her. Most notably, Hannah’s dead body crawling with maggots.

  She opened her peanuts, tossed a handful into her mouth and forced herself to chew. ‘What do you want to show me?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘I don’t like surprises.
’

  ‘You’ll like this one.’

  ‘I’m not coming unless you tell me.’

  Crowley chewed his bottom lip with crooked yellow teeth. ‘But it won’t be a surprise if I tell you.’

  Stay on top. Don’t let him dominate you. ‘I hate surprises.’

  After a lengthy silence, Crowley finally relented. ‘All right. It’s a house.’

  Maddie’s stomach tightened. ‘A house? What house?’

  ‘My new house.’

  ‘Whereabouts is it?’

  ‘Out in the sticks. Only about half an hour away.’

  ‘You must be doing well if you can afford to buy a new house.’

  Crowley grinned, spat on the palm of his hand and slicked back his hair. ‘I told you, I’m coming into money.’

  ‘Let me guess: you’ve got a rich old aunt?’

  Crowley slurped some lager and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nah. Nothing like that.’

  ‘I wish I had a rich relative. My family’s all poor. No one owns any property.’

  Crowley gazed into space. ‘Every dog has its day.’

  Maddie thought he looked smug. Like he was holding onto the world’s biggest secret. ‘What about your brother?’

  A storm cloud cast a shadow across Crowley’s eyes. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he getting a share?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Ronnie. That self-righteous pig’s got enough slop in his trough.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  Crowley changed the subject. ‘So where do you live?’

  The question took Maddie by surprise. ‘Me?’

  Crowley laughed. ‘No. I’m talking to that nut you dropped on the table.’

  ‘Feelham.’

  ‘Feelham’s a big town. Whereabouts?’

  Don’t let him lead you. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know you well enough. Not yet.’

  ‘I thought food was supposed to put you in a better mood?’

  ‘I’d hardly call a bag of nuts “food.”’