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

by Mark Tilbury

  Ben didn’t really care if Ronnie was Saint Nicholas himself. ‘When was Maddie here, Mrs Crowley?’

  ‘Coupla nights ago. Frank brought her home for tea.’

  ‘What time did they leave?’

  ‘Not late. About half seven – eight. Something like that.’

  ‘Did they say where they were going?’

  ‘Back to Frank’s. For the life of me, I can’t understand why he would take anyone back there.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Shifty, as usual. So what’s this really all about?’

  ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of a young woman where Frank works.’

  ‘The Heath girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s got something to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re trying to find out what happened.’

  ‘Something don’t smell right. I know that much.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He turned up about an hour after he left with Maddie. With a policewoman. She reckoned Frank had a load of stolen films.’

  ‘Was Maddie with them?’

  ‘Nope. Just the two of them. Scrawny looking woman in motorcycle leathers.’

  Ben’s heart missed a beat. The mystery biker at the mobile home site? Had to be. Too much of a coincidence. ‘Did this policewoman give you her name?’

  Agnes looked into the empty fireplace, as if the answer lay in the ashes. ‘No. Come to think of it, she didn’t have no ID, either. Frank looked guilty as sin though. Scared, even. But it’s a job to read him sometimes.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Went upstairs to his room. Then they come back down ten minutes later with a load of DVDs. God knows what was on them. Frank put a padlock on his door a while back.’

  ‘Could I have a look in his room?’

  ‘There ain’t nothing to see. Just an empty cupboard and his poster of Marilyn Monroe lying on the bed.’

  Ben didn’t believe Crowley had just been keeping dodgy films up in his room. ‘I’d still like to take a look.’

  ‘It’s like an icebox. I’ve had the window open to try to get the smell out.’

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘Stank to high heaven.’

  Ben imagined a rotting corpse.

  Agnes didn’t. ‘Truth is, that boy’s got an odour problem. Even as a kid he used to sweat like a stuck pig.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  Agnes led him up the stairs and into Crowley’s bedroom. ‘You can close the window now. I don’t want it open when I go to Ronnie’s. I’m spending Christmas week with him. Be nice to get treated properly for a while. Put me feet up.’

  Ben closed the window. ‘How long has Frank been keeping the room locked?’

  ‘Since the summer. He put a bigger padlock on it a couple of weeks ago. After the break-in.’

  ‘Break-in?’

  ‘While I was at bingo. Between you and me, Ronnie reckons it was Frank.’

  ‘Why would he think that?’

  ‘Because Frank’s no good.’

  ‘What did the police say about the break-in?’

  ‘Probably druggies nicking stuff to sell.’

  Ben looked at the open cupboard door. ‘Is this where Frank kept the films?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘And then Frank and this policewoman just left?’

  ‘Yep. He put the films in a carrier bag. Then they just buggered off.’

  Ben thought it odd that the police would use a carrier bag to put evidence in. Didn’t they carry proper sealed bags for that sort of thing?

  ‘I can’t see why she was so concerned about a few dodgy films. There are perverts everywhere. I’m not saying I approve of porn; I don’t, but you’d think the police had bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘It does seem strange.’

  ‘I went straight upstairs after they left. Just to make sure everything was as it should be. I looked out the window and saw them getting into Frank’s car.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yep. I thought it was odd, what with her all decked out in motorbike gear.’

  ‘Is it possible she was just getting a few more details off your son?’

  ‘No. I watched them drive away together.’

  ‘Who was driving?’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘What did this policewoman look like?’

  Agnes thought for a moment. ‘Medium height. Thin as a rake. Short, spiky grey hair. Glass eye.’

  Ben heart flat lined. ‘I’ve got to go. You’ve been a big help, Mrs Crowley.’

  ‘Do you know—’

  Ben hurried down the stairs and out the front door without a backward glance. He needed to find Connie Sykes. And quick. Maddie’s life depended on it.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Connie was at peace. She sat in front of her dressing-table mirror and brushed her hair. Maybe when this was all done and dusted, and they were settled back in Yarmsworth, she could put a touch of colour in her hair. Not that she was a vain woman. Her dressing table bore testament to that: not one night cream or face mask in sight. Vanity was just a by-product of insecurity. Most people feared the inevitability of death. But did they seriously believe that a glob of night cream would ward off the Reaper? That was as daft as thinking a clove of garlic might ward off a vampire.

  There was a spot on her chin that might have benefited from some concealer, but was she about to rush down to Boots and succumb to their fickle fancies? No. It was simply a symptom of stress. And it would soon be over. Baby Jacob’s circle would be complete. She would be free to live the life that God had intended.

  They would all be so happy together. Connie would take good care of them. Da and baby Jacob; the old and the young. She would ensure Da was as comfortable as possible in his remaining years. When the time came to make his final journey, she would send him on his way with a first-class ticket to Heaven.

  As for baby Jacob, he would be raised right. Raised to be a good man. A virtuous man. She would act as both sister and mother to him. The Wolf had called it a dual role. Connie liked the sound of that; it made her feel twice as important. She had such plans for her baby brother. He would be a straight-A student. Go to university. Medical school. She would introduce him as Doctor Jacob Sykes, consultant physician.

  She put her mother’s solid silver hairbrush on the dressing table. Perhaps she might enquire about a new prosthetic eye after she sold Fourwinds. The bungalow had to be worth at least three quarters of a million by now. Possibly more. Not bad for an initial investment of two hundred and fifty thousand. A cottage in Yarmsworth would only cost a fraction of that.

  Connie stood up. Her body ached from head to toe.

  Who cares for the carers, eh, Sweetcakes?

  And wasn’t that the truth? She walked out of the bedroom and through to the kitchen. She made bowls of porridge for the two little piggies in the basement and placed them on a large white tea tray. She added two bottles of Evian water from the fridge. None of that tap water muck for baby Jacob. How on earth the water company had the audacity to call it drinking water was above and beyond her. Well, she wasn’t going to pay the bill when she left Fourwinds, so they could stick that up their wastepipe and flush it.

  They can whistle in the Fourwinds.

  Connie smiled. The Wolf seemed in a jovial mood today, but she was well aware that he could change in the blink of an eye. There was a nasty humming noise in the back of her head. It seemed to be getting louder. Gathering momentum.

  She put the tray on the floor and unlocked the basement door. She pushed it open a few inches. ‘Tell me your location.’

  ‘On… the… bed.’

  Why did the Heath girl sound out of breath?

  Careful, Sweetcakes.

  ‘And the whore?’

  ‘I’m with Hannah. The baby’s coming.’

  ‘What do you mean, “The baby’s coming”?’

  ‘Hannah’s gone into labo
ur. She’s having the baby.’

  Connie walked down a few steps and peered into the basement. Hannah was lying on the airbed, legs apart, panting. The whore knelt beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘The baby can’t be coming. It’s not due until January.’

  The whore looked at her with devious eyes. ‘It’s early.’

  Hannah let out a scream capable of shattering glass. Connie plucked her daddy’s gun from the waistband of her trousers and pointed it at the whore. ‘Move away from her.’

  ‘She’s having the baby. You need to get towels and hot water.’

  ‘She can’t be having the baby.’

  Put the whore back in the car boot. She’s not to be trusted.

  Connie agreed. Too many cooks spoiled the birth. Or was that bath? The terrible whirring noise in her head made it damn near impossible to think. And it was getting worse. As if her mind was in the eye of a hurricane.

  The middle of a muddle, more like.

  Connie aimed the gun at the whore. ‘I want you to walk slowly up the steps and into the kitchen. If you so much as twitch without me giving you permission to do so, I will shoot you. Do you understand?’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘But nothing. I don’t care if you live or die. The Wolf doesn’t care if you live or die. The devil himself doesn’t care if you live or die. Am I making myself clear?’

  The whore let go of Hannah’s hand and stood up. She walked slowly up the steps.

  See her arrogance? The way she saunters?

  Connie did. Once in the kitchen, she ordered the whore to stand by the sink while she took the basement door off the latch and locked it. She then walked the whore out to Crowley’s car in what was now a fully-fledged snowstorm. The damn stuff was everywhere. At least a foot deep on the ground. Deeper in places. Banked up on the road, obliterating the landscape. Fourwinds was barely recognisable in its wintery disguise. The chimney poked out of the snow on the roof like a hand reaching out from a grave.

  ‘Open the passenger door,’ Connie shouted above the howling wind.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions, whore. Just open the door. There’s a button near the handbrake. Press it.’

  Maddie released the boot catch. Connie then walked her to the rear of the car. She lifted the boot lid and ordered Maddie to get inside.

  ‘Please. Don’t put me in there again. I—’

  ‘You can get in dead or alive. Your choice.’

  Maddie climbed into the boot.

  See how she defies you?

  Connie did. And she would bear it in mind when it was the whore’s turn to die. She slammed the boot shut and trundled back through the snow to Fourwinds. She kicked off her sodden shoes by the back door and walked through the house to her bedroom. She put the gun on the bed and stripped out of her wet clothes. She dried her face and feet on a towel from the en-suite bathroom. She then changed into a pair of brown polyester trousers, a white tee-shirt and a thick red jumper. She slipped her feet into a pair of black plimsolls. Light with good tread. Perfect for the basement steps.

  She walked back into the kitchen, barely able to believe that baby Jacob was about to be born again.

  Maybe it’s a false alarm. Maybe the girl’s just got a dickie belly or trapped wind.

  Perhaps. Connie had read a fair bit about the birthing process over the past few weeks. As far as she was concerned, paranoia seemed to accompany most pregnancies in the mollycoddled Western world. You got none of this namby-pamby nonsense in Africa. Those hardy souls knew the virtue of getting it out, getting up and getting on with it.

  Christmas Eve, Sweetcakes. Right on the cusp of when the baby Jesus was born.

  Connie smiled. How beautiful was that? Beautiful enough to make tears prick the back of her good eye. She opened the basement door and checked to make sure the Heath girl was still lying on the airbed. She was. Legs raised, chest heaving. The duvet sat in a crumpled heap next to the airbed. She put the door on the latch and walked down the steps, gun aimed at the floor, safety on, just the way Da had taught her to all those years ago down at Blackett’s Mine. Da was a sensible man.

  A broken man.

  Yes, well, Connie was going to fix him. Piece him back together again with baby Jacob glue.

  Connie reached the bottom of the steps. Although she had no personal experience of childbirth, she did know about the timing of contractions and how to check the dilation of the cervix. ‘How far apart are the contractions?’

  Hannah panted and gripped the side of the airbed. ‘I… don’t… know…’

  ‘Over five minutes? Less than five minutes?’

  ‘Less. A lot less.’

  Baby Jacob was on his way.

  Arriving by steam train, by the sounds of him.

  Connie ignored the Wolf. She needed to go and wash her hands.

  And your arms. Right up to the elbows, mind. We don’t want to give baby Jacob an infection before he’s had a chance to take his first breath.

  Hannah screamed and beat her fists against the bed.

  Connie shuddered. ‘I’m going to get things ready. You stay right there and don’t move.’

  ‘Do… I… look… like… I’m about to fucking move?’

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm. Or swearing. Get stripped from the waist down.’

  Hannah screwed her eyes shut, arched her back and started panting again.

  Connie rushed up the steps and closed the door behind her. She put the gun on the worktop and walked over to the sink. She scrubbed her hands and forearms with antibacterial soap, and then took a tea towel from a drawer and dried herself.

  That’s clever. Drying your hands on a dirty tea towel. Now you’re all contaminated again.

  ‘It’s clean. I don’t even use tea towels. You know full well I don’t eat here. Other than Christmas Day.’

  But how long’s it been stuffed away in that drawer?

  ‘Does it matter?’

  I’d say so, Sweetcakes. There’ll be all sorts of nasty bugs lurking in there.

  Connie threw the towel on the side and fetched a freshly laundered hand towel from the airing cupboard in her bedroom. She washed her hands and arms again. ‘Satisfied?’

  You’ll do. Now you need to go and prepare the birthing area.

  ‘I’ve only got one pair of hands.’

  And you’ll need clean towels.

  Connie could feel her temper starting to bubble. ‘I know! I’m not stupid.’

  No one said you were.

  Connie scurried back to the airing cupboard and took out a freshly laundered cotton sheet and three large hand towels. ‘Is that good enough for you?’

  No answer. And just as well. She was getting tired of being told what to do. Helpful advice was one thing, questioning her ability quite another. She picked up the gun and tucked it in the waistband of her trousers. She would have to come back for the hot water and scissors. She went back into the basement, keeping a watchful eye on Hannah Heath as she descended the steps.

  ‘How are you?’

  Hannah took a break from panting and looked at Connie with eyes as black as coal. ‘How the fuck do you think I am?’

  ‘I thought I told you to undress from the waist down.’

  ‘I’m in too much pain.’

  Connie threw the towels and the sheet onto the floor and pulled the gun from her waistband. ‘You don’t know the meaning of pain.’

  That’s right! Throw the towels on the filthy floor. What if baby Jacob gets an infection and dies?

  Connie took a deep breath and let it out between clenched teeth. What was she supposed to do, sanitise the basement from top to bottom in case baby Jacob caught a sniffle? Too much fuss was made about dirt these days. Humans needed germs to build-up their immune systems. Fact.

  ‘Childbirth is the most natural thing in the world. So stop making such a fuss. Get stripped and put that sheet over you. I’ll go and get the rest of the stuff.’

  By the time Connie had
everything in place, including a bowl of water with a liberal splash of Dettol, her head was fit to burst. She kept the gun tucked in the waistband of her trousers. Safety on. She needed her hands free to deliver baby Jacob.

  Hannah panted and moaned and thrashed about on the bed.

  What a fuss! Anyone would think the girl was being slaughtered in an abattoir.

  Hannah gripped the airbed and let rip with a blood-curdling scream.

  The contractions were coming every couple of minutes now. Baby Jacob’s arrival was imminent. Connie got down on all fours and peered between Hannah’s legs. But something was amiss. She couldn’t see the head.

  ‘It’s coming,’ Hannah wailed.

  Connie’s stomach knotted. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  What if it’s a breech birth?

  Connie didn’t want to even consider that.

  What if baby Jacob’s tangled up with the umbilical cord?

  Hannah panted and moaned her way through another contraction.

  ‘Shut up. Shut up a minute; I’m trying to think.’

  ‘I need to push.’

  ‘You just wait one minute, lady. Don’t you dare push until I tell you to. Is that clear?’

  ‘Arghhhh… shit.’

  Connie peered between Hannah’s legs again. No sign of the head. Damn it. Where was it?

  Maybe you ought to have buffed up on possible complications.

  But Hannah was in good health. She didn’t smoke. She wasn’t from one of those awful underclass families. So where was the damned head?

  ‘I need to push,’ Hannah shouted. ‘I need to push, now!’

  ‘But there’s nothing there.’

  Hannah felt between her legs. ‘It is. I can feel it. It’s just inside.’

  Connie wasn’t convinced. ‘Where?’

  ‘In there. Open your eyes and look, for fuck’s sake.’

  Something was wrong. Connie could sense it, in the same way she could sense a storm coming when she had one of her migraines. Maybe if she felt baby Jacob’s head for herself, it might help to ease her apprehension. ‘Let me feel.’

  Hannah drew her legs up.

  ‘Open your legs wider. I can’t see.’

  As Connie readied herself to move closer, Hannah kicked her in the chin with the heel of her right foot.

  At first, Connie thought her mouth had exploded. The blow forced her backwards. She cracked her head on the concrete floor and was treated to a starburst of bright, popping colours. Her mouth snapped shut. She bit down hard and severed the tip of her tongue. Blood bubbled onto her lips. A terrible hissing noise whistled through her ears.