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

by Mark Tilbury

  Connie didn’t see how killing her brother would make everything all right. She would end up in jail, or wherever it was they sent kids who killed babies. The Wolf assured Connie that she wouldn’t end up in jail. Not if she put a pillow over baby Jacob’s face and held it there until he stopped breathing. It would be just like sending him to sleep. No one would ever know. Not even baby Jacob.

  Connie didn’t remember getting up and walking to her brother’s room. It was as if the Wolf had put her into a trance. She’d spent a long time standing just inside Jacob’s room, staring at his cot, holding her breath until she’d gone dizzy.

  Her heart thumped in her ears. KA-PUM, KA-PUM, KA-PUM.

  Don’t be afraid. The angels will look after him.

  But Connie was afraid. Beyond afraid. Terrified. ‘Who are you?’

  I am the truth, Sweetcakes.

  ‘I can’t see you.’

  You don’t need to see me.

  Connie imagined him as the Big Bad Wolf, slobbering over her brain and drowning her thoughts in his spit. ‘But where have you come from?’

  I’ve always been here, Sweetcakes.

  Connie’s teeth started to chatter. ‘I don’t understand.’

  You don’t need to understand. I’m here to help.

  ‘How’s killing baby Jacob going to help?’

  Don’t you want your life back?

  ‘Yes.’

  And your Da?

  ‘I want him back more than anything in the world.’

  You know you can never have him back while baby Jacob’s around, don’t you?

  Connie did. It was as if baby Jacob had blocked the door to her father’s heart. ‘What if I get caught?’

  Everyone’s asleep. No one will know.

  ‘Won’t the doctors know?’

  No. You remember Mrs Watson’s baby? How it died of cot death?

  Connie did. But she didn’t fully understand what cot death was. Apparently, the baby had just stopped breathing. At least that’s what she’d heard Mrs Watson tell her mother. ‘How do you know about that?’

  I know everything, Sweetcakes. If you want your Da back, all you’ve got to do is hold the pillow over Jacob’s head like I told you.

  ‘Like a cot death?’

  Exactly like a cot death.

  Connie looked at the cot. Her teeth were chattering so loud. Any minute now, her parents would hear her and come running into the bedroom. Take her straight to jail.

  ‘What if they catch me?’

  They won’t catch you. Not if you’re quick.

  And Connie was quick. Quicker than quicksand, you might say. It didn’t even seem like she was doing it herself. It felt as if the Wolf had somehow grown a pair of hands – or paws – and pressed down on the pillow instead of her.

  She hadn’t dared to open her eyes until Jacob had stopped kicking. Stopped moving. She’d then put the pillow back under his head and straightened out the blankets. He’d looked so peaceful. As if he was having the happiest sleep he’d ever had in his short, attention-grabbing life.

  Connie sneaked back to her bedroom on tippy-toes like a princess ballerina. She could hear Da snoring in his bedroom. Maybe he’d take her down to Blackett’s Mine tomorrow. Shoot at the Coca-Cola Tin Soldiers after the doctor had been to see to baby Jacob. It would be so nice to spend time with Da again. Time without him worry-bugging about getting home to play with his precious son.

  Soon, Da would realise that he didn’t need baby Jacob any more than he needed his winter coat in the summer. He’d soon know that baby Jacob had been nothing but what the teachers at school called a ‘distraction’. Like those stupid boys who showed off in the classroom to make the girls giggle.

  After suffocating her brother, Connie had spent the rest of the night awake. There was a faint humming noise in the back of her head. It made her feel like she was sinking down into the mattress. She prayed that the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t waiting under the bed to gobble her all up.

  He wasn’t. But as the first light of morning crept beneath her curtains, he spoke again.

  You did good, Sweetcakes.

  Connie wasn’t so sure. ‘I’m scared.’

  It’s good to be scared. Keeps you on your toes.

  ‘Like a ballerina?’

  Just like a ballerina.

  As the Wolf finished speaking, her mother screamed. Connie thought the terrible high-pitched noise would slice right through her brain, like one of those cheese-cutter things in Mr Parson’s grocery shop.

  Whatever Connie’s intentions, the death of baby Jacob had only made everything a million times worse. A billion times worse. All the stars in the universe worse. Her father had certainly been in no mood to take her to Blackett’s Mine. She’d never heard him cry before. Not really cry. He sounded as if he was howling and cussing and sobbing all at the same time. It was a noise that scared Connie so bad that she wanted to go back into baby Jacob’s room and wake him up from his forever sleep.

  By the time evening rolled around, Da’s face looked like a Hallowe’en lantern. He kept asking why this had happened. How could baby Jacob be dead? He’d been right as rain when they’d put him to bed. The police came to the house. The doctor, too. They’d asked lots of questions about baby Jacob. The doctor had called it a cot death, just like the Wolf had promised. Connie was thankful for that. At least she wasn’t in any trouble.

  By the time she started work in a local nursing home just after her eighteenth birthday, Connie’s heart felt like a lump of coal excavated from the bowels of Blackett’s Mine. She dearly wished she could turn back the clock and take that pillow off baby Jacob’s face. She prayed every night for forgiveness. Told God she was sorry. Baby Jacob, too. She hadn’t meant it. The Wolf told her to do it. Just like he’d told her to cut out her mother’s heart and eat it. Which she might well have done if the Ice Maiden had still been within cutting distance.

  As time passed, Da started to lose his mind. At first it was only small things. He’d forget her name, or muddle her up with someone else. No big shakes. He was an alcoholic, after all. But over the years, his behaviour worsened. One night, she’d found him in the garden, digging up the flower border. When she’d asked him what he was doing, he’d told her he was looking for baby Jacob. Another time, he’d thrown his dinner across the kitchen and attacked her with the gravy jug. At times, Connie wondered if the Wolf had somehow managed to get inside his head and interfere with his mind.

  Her father lost his job at the mine a few days shy of his fifty-seventh birthday. By then he was hallucinating and accusing Connie of being a whore. The Wolf had told her to put Da out of his misery. It was obvious the old man had lost his marbles. But by then Connie had developed a pretty reliable strategy for dealing with the Wolf’s more outrageous demands. If she cut her arms with a razor blade and drank the blood, it seemed to satisfy his thirst. The better the flow, the more satisfied he was.

  Connie liked the warm coppery taste of blood. Sometimes, when her arms were too sore, and the wounds too fresh, she’d move on to her legs and breasts, draining the blood into a cup in order to drink it. The pain could be quite debilitating, but Connie had learned to cope with it reasonably well down the years.

  All seemed to be ticking along without major incident until a new resident at the nursing home took a shine to Connie. Dear, sweet Stanley. About a year after his arrival, he’d confided to Connie his intention to leave her half of his considerable wealth. The other half was intended for an animal charity. When Connie had asked him about family, Stanley had revealed a son. ‘A drug addict, a liar, and a thief who won’t get a penny piece from me.’

  Connie had fought a long and draining battle with the Wolf – quite literally, as far as her blood was concerned – about how to best bring about the old man’s death and secure the inheritance. No amount of blood-letting could persuade the Wolf to back down. The Wolf had argued that the old man would die of natural causes sooner or later, anyway, so what was the point in waiting around w
hen there was over two hundred grand waiting in the wings?

  Connie had almost severed her left nipple as she’d sat in the bath trying to resist the Wolf’s demands to put a pillow over Stanley’s head. Anyone but him. As a rule, Connie didn’t like old folk. Most of them thought that dribbling their way to a hundred qualified them for some sort of medal. But Stanley was different. He’d arrived at the nursing home without fuss or fanfare, and she’d warmed to him instantly. She’d even enjoyed his numerous tales about his time as an army officer and, later, as a property developer. Stanley was what Connie would call ‘an officer and a gentleman’.

  Connie had finally relented when the Wolf had offered her a deal. One that was too good to refuse: a solemn promise to help make her father better.

  ‘But Da can’t get better. He’s got dementia.’

  No, Sweetcakes. He’s suffering from something else.

  Connie was stumped. ‘Like what?

  Heartache and misery, marinated in booze. A deadly recipe.

  ‘I’ve seen dozens of old folk with dementia. You’re not going to tell me they’ve all lost a baby?’

  People carry all sorts of baggage, Sweetcakes. But we’re not talking about other folk, are we? We’re talking about your Da.

  ‘And killing Stanley,’ Connie reminded him. ‘An innocent old man.’

  I prefer to call it helping him along.

  ‘I still don’t see how that will help Da.’

  It won’t. Not directly, anyway. It’s going to help us to procure funds so as we can begin the journey.

  ‘What journey?’

  To put the wheels back on your Da’s wagon.

  ‘But how?’

  By bringing baby Jacob back.

  Connie shivered, in spite of the hot bath. ‘You can’t bring him back. He’s dead.’

  His body’s dead, Sweetcakes. But his spirit lives on. I’ve been with him only ten minutes since.

  ‘Jacob?’

  The very same. Still wearing that little powder-blue romper suit and clutching Teddy One Ear.

  ‘My Teddy One Ear?’

  How many teddies did you chew the ear off, Constance?

  A tear trickled onto her cheek.

  He’s ready to come back. More than ready.

  ‘But how?’

  Once you send Stanley to meet his maker, you’re to take the money and head south.

  ‘South?’ Connie squawked. ‘But why?’

  There might be trouble with that no-good son of his.

  ‘But I don’t know anyone down south.’

  That doesn’t matter. You can use the money to buy a nice little place and start again. A new beginning for you and Da.

  Connie looked around the bathroom. She wished she could see the Wolf. Look into his eyes and see if he was telling the truth. ‘But how will you bring baby Jacob back?’

  I’m not going to, Constance. You are.

  ‘But he was cremated,’ Connie protested. ‘What am I supposed to do, take his ashes to a magician?’

  I’ve already told you: we’re talking about his spirit.

  Connie lost patience. ‘How am I supposed to bring his spirit back? That’s like sending me out with a fishing net to catch fog.’

  Don’t be petulant, Constance. All you need to do is look for a suitable pregnant woman so as baby Jacob’s spirit can latch onto the unborn child. But be careful to choose carefully. We don’t want any drug addicts or tarts. It’s also preferable that she doesn’t smoke or drink, although complete abstinence isn’t necessary; the odd glass of wine shouldn’t hurt.

  ‘But I can’t just drag a pregnant woman off the streets.’

  No one’s asking you to drag anyone anywhere. Bide your time. I’ll help you look.

  ‘Can baby Jacob really be born again?’

  You’ve heard of reincarnation, haven’t you?

  ‘Yes. But I—’

  But, nothing. Right now, all you need to focus on is sending Stanley off to meet him maker.

  Connie faltered. She didn’t want to kill Stanley. But the thought of bringing baby Jacob back and helping her Da to get better was too tempting to resist.

  Do you trust me, Constance?

  Connie looked at the angry red wounds on her arms, legs and breasts. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to feed him so often if she learned to trust him a little better. ‘Aye. I trust you.’

  And so she had. Connie had used Stanley’s money to buy Fourwinds. She’d got a job at Sunnyside Nursing Home and worked her way up to care manager. Her faith in the Wolf had finally paid dividends when Hannah Heath had announced her pregnancy some eleven years after Connie had left the Northeast to travel south.

  Now it was time to put everything right. It had been a long hard road, and she was lucky to get a second chance. Most people went to their graves with a headful of regrets and a lifetime of lost opportunities.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Maddie’s back felt like an ironing board. The airbed had almost been pressed flat to the concrete floor with the weight of both women sharing it. Maddie picked up the empty breakfast bowls and walked them to the top of the steps. ‘You know you said the baby’s due in two weeks?’

  ‘Fourth of January. Then it will all be over. I can go to my grave knowing my child’s going to be raised by that fucking witch. Well, I say grave. She’ll probably throw me in the river.’

  Maddie walked back down the steps. ‘Please don’t say that. Try to stay positive. I’ve had an idea. It’s only an idea, though. It will need some planning.’

  ‘There’s no way out of here, Maddie. Not unless you possess some sort of superpower.’

  ‘I wish. No, I—’

  ‘Don’t tell me: we can appeal to Connie’s better nature.’

  Maddie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Your mum said you’re a member of the Feelham Players.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Maybe we could use your acting skills.’

  ‘I’ve got no acting skills. It was just amateur dramatics.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. I’m sure you’re really good.’

  Hannah rubbed the small of her back. ‘It hardly matters now, does it?’

  ‘It might.’

  Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘Go on, then, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Remember it’s only an idea. We still need to work out the details.’

  Hannah shuffled back and forth like a caged animal marking its territory. ‘I’m listening.’

  Maddie was reluctant to say it out loud. Ideas always sounded so much better inside your head. Much less complicated. ‘If you fake going into labour, and Connie thinks the baby is coming, you can attack her while she’s off-guard. While she’s getting ready to deliver the baby.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘Attack her? What with?’

  ‘She’ll need scissors to cut the umbilical cord, won’t she? If you grab them and—’

  ‘Do you really think I’m in any fit state to attack anyone? It takes me ten minutes to get up off that bloody bed in the morning. And that’s on a good day.’

  ‘I could distract her.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think she’ll leave you wandering about down here while I have the baby, do you? She’s a lot of things, Maddie, but dumb ain’t one of them.’

  ‘If she thinks you’ve gone into an early labour, she might panic.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘Think about it, Hannah. Until now she hasn’t been challenged. She’s been the one calling the shots. But if we take that control away from her, she’ll get thrown off-balance. She’ll—’

  ‘And what happens if she overpowers me? What then?’

  ‘I know it’s a huge risk. A massive thing to ask. You just have to try to believe it will work.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. It’s not you who’s carrying a child. It’s not you who’s going to have to do it.’

  ‘I know what it’s like to face evil.’

  Hannah didn’t look convinced. ‘Yeah. Right.’

&nb
sp; Maddie told her about Penghilly’s Farm. The terrors of the Revelation Room and the crazed psychopathic cult leader, Edward Ebb. How one of Ebb’s followers had tried to rape her whilst she was chained to a bed. And how she, Ben and Geoff had all survived against insurmountable odds.

  ‘Did that really happen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hannah paced around the edge of the basement, one hand dragging on the rough stone wall. She stopped and faced Maddie. ‘You’re a right glutton for punishment, aren’t you?’

  ‘You could say that!’

  Hannah was quiet for a few moments. And then: ‘I really don’t see Connie falling for this.’

  ‘That’s why we need to take her out of her comfort zone. Change the rules.’

  ‘What about her imaginary friend?’ Hannah asked. ‘Do we have to take him out of his comfort zone, too?’

  ‘The Wolf?’

  ‘Yeah. The fucking Wolf. I wouldn’t be surprised if she – it – howls at the moon at night.’

  ‘I wonder who he is?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘God knows. I’ve even heard her arguing with him.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve only heard her side of the story!’

  Maddie laughed.

  ‘They argued once about whether to let me out of the basement to take a shower. That was when she started bringing me a bucket of warm water and a bar of soap every couple of days.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘She brought me some face wipes once. Claimed she had to sneak them in. Said the Wolf was such a hypocrite. One day he was obsessed with hygiene, the next he was moaning about the cost of a few face wipes.’

  Maddie tried to make sense of what Hannah was saying. Connie Sykes was clearly a paranoid schizophrenic. You didn’t need a degree in psychology to work that one out. But it still didn’t explain what she wanted with Hannah’s baby.

  ‘Then she ranted on about it always being left up to her to worry about baby Jacob’s welfare.’

  ‘Why on earth does she call the baby Jacob?’

  ‘Search me. She always has. It’s all part of her fucked up mind.’

  ‘But she shows concern for the baby’s welfare?’

  ‘If you can call it that. When it suits her.’