The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) (12 page)

Frank stumbled back to reality. It was time to check the Golden Egg. There was a poster above his bed portraying Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway vent in the film
The Seven-Year Itch
. Frank loved that picture. Marilyn looked so sexy and so provocative and so full of Western promise.

Behind the poster, Frank’s Golden Egg lay incubating in a small locked cupboard.

Frank walked up the steps to his mobile home and let himself inside. For the first time ever, that rusty old lump of tin called Frank’s Ship was coming in. Maid Madeline had called whilst he’d been in The Three Horseshoes and asked to meet up again. Tomorrow night. Spend a quiet night in. Get to know each other a bit better. Frank had been barely able to contain his excitement. He’d celebrated the good news with three whiskey chasers, and a game of darts with Mick Myers.  

What you gonna do if she wants to fuck, Frankie-boy? Flash up a film of Tina in dildo heaven to help you get it up?

‘I’ll give her the time of her life,’ Frank promised. ‘Take her to places she’s never been.’

If you say so. But ask yourself this: Why would someone like her even look at a middle-aged slob like you?

‘Why wouldn’t she? I’m not bad looking.’

In a darkened smoky room, perhaps.

‘Love ain’t all about looks.’

Attraction is. Which makes me wonder if she isn’t being employed by the Target.

Frank threw his jacket on the floor and fetched a can of Special Brew from the fridge. He sometimes wished he could shut up the voices in his head. Stick a gun inside his ear and blow them away. Especially Killjoy Voice.

You’d better get this shit-hole licked into shape before you bring Madeline back here.

Frank wasn’t in a tidying mood. ‘I’m knackered. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Ah, tomorrow. The favourite day of the slob.

Frank chugged half the can in one go. He knew as well as the next man he needed to smarten the place up. Eradicate all traces of single life. But right now, all he wanted to do was relax and savour the moment. And then phone the Target. Was that too much for a man to ask?

He finished the can and lit the paraffin heater. The place stank of damp. And fags. And piss. And paraffin. The heater barely combated the cold. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He got more warmth and comfort from the cigarette than he did from that stinking heater.

He grabbed another can from the fridge, and then squeezed into a seat behind the small kitchen table. There would be no more squeezing anywhere when he was Lord and Master of his own destiny. Once he’d sold Fourwinds Cottage and bought his guesthouse in Margate—

I thought it was Brighton?

Francis Arthur Crowley would sit at the poshest tables in the poshest restaurants and eat the poshest food. People would look at him and say, ‘there goes a man of means’. No more Special Brew, either; the damned stuff tasted like a cross between lager and stale farts. Frank would be a Pimm’s and lemonade man when the Golden Egg finally hatched. He’d always believed that he was a rich man born in a poor man’s shoes.

He closed his eyes. Maid Madeline would want for nothing. No, sir. He imagined her decked out in a black sequined dress and red high heeled shoes. Clutching a matching handbag. His girl. The belle of the ball. Every man would look at him and wish they were standing in his shoes. Including that self-satisfied smug git, Ronnie. Once Frank had invested some money into Maid Madeline’s wardrobe, she would make Ronnie’s wife look like something the dog had just yacked up. 

Frank opened his eyes. It took a while to adjust from the ballroom of his imagination to the squalor of his caravan. He squinted at the chaos around him and vowed to set about the place in the morning with a mop and bucket and as many cleaning products as he could find on the shelves at Tesco.

You can’t make shit shine.

Talking of shit, he would have to pay special attention to the bog. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned it properly. He sometimes shot half a bottle of bleach down it if it got really bad, but other than that, he didn’t see the point in wasting time on the damn thing.

Frank finished his can and fetched another one from the fridge. This one was for sipping. He needed a semi-clear head if he was going to talk to the Target.

Careful what you say, Frankie-boy. You’re pissed.

Frank didn’t think he was. ‘I’ve only had a few pints.’

Seven. And three whiskey chasers.

Exactly. Sober as a judge. He dialled the number from his mobile phone menu.

The Target didn’t seem very pleased to hear from him. ‘What do you want?’

Two could play at grumpy. ‘You
know
what I want.’

‘I’m tiring of your stupid games, Crowley.’

This ain’t no game.’

‘Whatever it is, I’m not talking to you. Not tonight.’

Frank opted for a more sinister approach. ‘I went to see your house the other night.’

‘It’s a bungalow.’

‘Really? So why do you call it Fourwinds Cottage, then?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to show my girlfriend where we’ll be living as soon as everything’s sorted.’

A slight pause. And then: ‘Did you say “girlfriend?”’

Frank forgot he was on the phone and nodded.

‘Is she mentally impaired?’

‘No.’

‘And does this imaginary girlfriend know that you’re blackmailing me?’

Frank considered saying that Madeline knew everything, but he didn’t want to open a can of worms and invite the Target to start fishing. ‘That’s my business.’

‘I’d be very careful if I were you.’

‘Whassat supposed to mean?’

‘People vanish.’

Frank tried to laugh, but hacked something nasty into his mouth. ‘I don’t respond to threats.’

‘I want the evidence before I even consider giving you another penny.’

‘Do you really think I’m that dumb?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

‘You seem to forget I
know
what you’ve done. I want the deeds to the house. Then you can have the evidence.’

‘I’ll give you ten grand. Not a penny more.’

Frank laughed. ‘Ten poxy grand?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?’

‘I’d get a one-way ticket out of here, if I were you.’

‘You’re forgetting what’s at stake.’

The Target laughed. It sounded like a bark.

Frank didn’t care for that laugh. It was the same laugh Mother used to cough up as a precursor to a thick ear. ‘I ain’t kidding. I want—’

‘Do you think you scare me with your half-baked threats?’

Frank rummaged in his brain for a suitable comeback. ‘I—’

‘Do you think a dirty little pervert like you is going to hold me over a barrel? Ten grand’s all you’re getting. Take it or leave it.’

‘Then it looks like I’m going to the cops.’

‘If you go to the cops, you’re dead.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘Try me.’

Frank looked at the mouldy ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t kill me.’

‘Ever heard the expression, “nothing to lose”?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Yes. We will.’

Frank chugged more beer. ‘I want ten grand now. We’ll talk about the rest later.’

‘Are you going to hand over the evidence?’

‘The ten grand’s just a down payment. Like I said, I want the house.’

‘Then it looks like we’re at stalemate.’

‘You’ve got until the first of January.’

‘Not going to happen, Crowley. If you continue to make ridiculous demands, I’ll cut you off altogether.’

‘No you won’t. I’ll never go away. Not until I get what’s mine.’

‘For the last time, I’ll give you another ten thousand. That’ll be seventeen grand you’ve had altogether. My whole life savings.’

‘Liar.’

‘I don’t care what you believe.’

‘You will.’

‘Are you aware of the parable of the dog with a bone? The one that sees its reflection in a river?’

Frank wasn’t.

‘The reflection of the bone looked so much bigger and juicier than the one in the dumb mutt’s chops. So it dropped the bone in the water and ended up with nowt.’

Frank snorted and hiccupped at the same time. A reflex that brought about a prolonged coughing fit.

‘My advice to you is don’t drop the bone.’

Frank wiped tears from his eyes and tried to recover his composure. ‘You’ve got a lot more to lose than me.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘When can you let me have the money?’

‘When I’m good and ready.’

Frank felt his guesthouse in Brighton downsize itself to a beach hut. ‘I need it now.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got expenses.’

‘Like what? Your make-believe girlfriend?’

‘She’s not “make-believe”. She’s real. She’s fucking gorgeous, too. Gorgeous like a model.’

‘Goodbye, Crowley.’

‘Wait! We ain’t finished—’

The Target disconnected the call.

Frank stared at the phone as if it had just slapped him. A part of him wanted to call back and carry on the negotiations. But he wasn’t very good with words. Especially when the booze had turned his tongue slippery.

But he was good with his hands. Yes, sir. And the Target would do well to remember that. Hands were just about the deadliest weapons a man could possess.

Geoff Whittle sat behind his desk and formed a steeple with his fingers. ‘Go back to Sunnyside and talk to Connie Sykes again. See if she can shed any light on this money Crowley’s going on about.’

Ben wasn’t convinced. ‘How would she know anything about that?’

‘People blab. Boast. Talk about things. She
might
have heard something.’

‘She won’t like it.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether she likes it. We’re not trying to win a popularity contest. Most people get fed up answering questions, especially if it’s going over the same old ground. But if you’re afraid of upsetting her...’

Ben held up a hand. ‘Okay. Okay, I’ll go back to Sunnyside – for what it’s worth.’

Maddie smiled. ‘Don’t forget my Christmas card.’

‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, love. He’s got a head like a sieve.’

‘Sieves are good for sifting things,’ Ben said.

‘And just remember to keep your private lives and work separate. I don’t want you two falling out and refusing to talk to each other.’

Ben squeezed Maddie’s hand. He resisted an urge to kiss her, smiled, and then walked out of the office. It was getting tiresome listening to the Grand Old Duke of Relationships offering advice. Especially such wise words as, “for Christ’s sake don’t go getting her up the gut”. In spite of his father’s blunt comments, Ben had been walking on air since Maddie had kissed him. Four days, seven hours and twenty-something minutes ago. Right here in this hallway. Hardly the night of a thousand stars, but as far as Ben was concerned, the most romantic setting in the most romantic movie ever made.

Maddie was his girlfriend. His! How grade-A cool was that? He wanted to shout it from the rooftops.
Hey, world! It’s me! Ben Whittle. The awkward git who still stammers when he’s flustered. I’m going out with the girl of my dreams. Useless old Stutter-buck has finally got something to sh-shout about. Something worth having. How do you like that? Not so useless now, eh?

He took his parka from the coat stand and the stepped outside into a bitter cold wind. One week until Christmas, and he still hadn’t bought any presents or cards. It would have to be vouchers for the family this year. He didn’t have time to go hunting in Oxford for gifts.

What about Maddie?

Maybe he could nip into Feelham and get her one of those giant stuffed toys.

She might not like stuffed toys.

A ring?

Too soon.

Clothes?

You don’t know her size.

Chocolates. All girls like chocolates.

Not if they’re on a diet they don’t. And Maddie seems pretty picky with food.

Ben parked in the courtyard at Sunnyside and tried to focus on what he was going to say to Connie Sykes. Or, more importantly, how he would broach the subject of Frank Crowley. He took a deep breath and let it out between clenched teeth. Connie Sykes would probably send him packing, anyway. There was something about the woman that had made him feel uneasy when he’d interviewed her. He didn’t know what, exactly. It was just…

Gut instinct?

Maybe. As for Maddie, he was getting too far ahead of himself. He’d even imagined getting married and having children, for God’s sake. Three children. Named them, too. Rebecca, David and Chloe. How dumb was that? They all lived in a small cottage in the countryside. Rose Cottage. Pink and yellow roses growing around the front porch. A small back garden with swings and rockers and a paddling pool. Summers spent lazing in the sun, watching the kids run and play and splash each other in the pool. Iced lemonade in a large crystal jug. Walks in the countryside picking blackberries for Maddie to make an apple and blackberry pie.

But, of course, Maddie would blow him out long before this dream was ever realised. As soon as she got to know all his nasty little habits. Spent time listening to his rather pessimistic view of the world. In all honesty, they were probably just clinging to each other because of what had happened at Penghilly’s Farm. There was bound to be a fancy medical term for it. Survivor’s syndrome, perhaps. Human beings liked to stick labels on things. It helped to give a reason to the inexplicable.

Ben looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. There were bags beneath his eyes. They looked like small dark hammocks. His right knee, neck and shoulders were hurting like hell. He sometimes exceeded the recommended dose of painkillers, just to get relief. Especially at night.

He opened the car door and stepped out into the courtyard. Snow swirled in the wind and dusted the roof of the building. He hurried up the steps to the main reception and rang the bell.

A young girl with short dark hair and a pretty smile opened the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was wondering if I could have a word with Connie Sykes.’

‘She’s not here right now.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘She won’t be long. Are you here for a job?’

‘No. Nothing like that. I work for Whittle Investigations. We’re looking into the disappearance of Hannah Heath.’

‘Hannah? Oh, God, that was terrible. Come in. You can wait in the rest room, if you like.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. I’m Lisa, by the way.’

‘Ben. Ben Whittle.’

Ben followed her into the rest room. He sat down in a high-backed chair close to a bay window overlooking the courtyard. An old man was sitting opposite him. He was asleep, his chin almost resting on his chest.

‘That’s John,’ Lisa said. ‘Connie’s dad. He’s got late-stage dementia. He doesn’t know much about it, bless him. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee would be great. Milk and two sugars, please.’

Ben looked around the room. It wasn’t at all as he’d expected. Light and airy. Cream curtains and pale yellow walls. A large plasma TV screen secured to the wall above an ornate mahogany fireplace. An imitation fire glowing in the hearth.

Ben looked out the window. The snow was getting heavier now. Still not quite settling, but threatening to. He would have to drive carefully. God help him if he crashed the old man’s car.

Lisa returned and handed him a mug of coffee. ‘It’s only instant.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve got to get on. I’ve sent Connie a text and told her you’re here.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She didn’t reply. But don’t worry; she shouldn’t be long.’

Ben sipped his coffee. He still didn’t know what he was going to say to Connie. He could hardly ask her if she knew anything about a bungalow out in the sticks, could he? As far as Ben was concerned, Crowley had only taken Maddie out there because he was trying to impress her. Something better than his mobile home.

You don’t even have a mobile home. Just a dingy little room in your parents’ house. Maddie had better hold onto her hat and get ready to be swept off her feet.

Ben couldn’t argue with the thought. He’d never be able to afford his own place. House prices had risen way above his limited means. It was either stay at home, or pay a ridiculous amount of rent to a private landlord.

‘The whizz-bangs are coming!’

Ben jumped and spilt some of his coffee. ‘Shit.’

Connie’s father stared at him from across the room. His bald head glistened with sweat. His eyes looked as if they were about to pop from their sockets. ‘The whizz-bangs are coming.’

Ben put his cup on the table and wiped the front of his parka. What did he do now? Try to engage with him? Ignore him?

The old man coughed. A long drawn out wheeze that rattled against his ribs like wind-chimes from hell. His hands clawed at the arms of his chair. His eyes looked as if they were hitched up to wild horses. ‘The whizz-bangs are coming.’

Ben stared out the window at his father’s BMW. There was now a thin layer of snow on the bonnet. If he didn’t get going soon, the road to Feelham might be too dangerous to negotiate.

Stop looking for excuses to scarper. The snow’s more or less melting as it hits the ground.

The old man stood up and shuffled towards him. His laboured breathing sounded like gravel trapped inside a cement mixer. He reached out and grabbed Ben’s arm. Ben let it go limp. Surrendered it. He didn’t want to get involved in a tug-of-war with his own arm.

‘The whizz-bangs are coming.’

Maybe he was referring to the snow. ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ Duh! How dumb was that.

‘The whizz-bangs…’

What did Lisa say his name was? Jim? James? Something short like that. No – John. That was it. Maybe if he called him by his name he might respond. ‘Do you like Christmas, John?’

John Sykes wasn’t saying. He pushed up the sleeve of Ben’s parka and groped his left arm. It was as if he was trying to decipher the goosebumps on Ben’s arm.

Ben tried to pull away, but John Sykes gripped it tight and stared deep into Ben’s eyes.

‘The whizz-bangs!’

‘I don’t understand, John. I don’t know what you mean.’

Spit bubbled in one corner of John’s mouth. ‘The whizz-bangs are coming.’

What the hell were whizz-bangs? Fireworks? Bombs?

John dug his nails into Ben’s arm. ‘The baby’s blue!’

Ben’s heart fell into his stomach. ‘Baby? What baby?’

He suddenly let go of Ben’s arm and grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip. His lungs sounded like knackered bellows trying to breathe life into a fire. Spit flew into Ben’s face. ‘The baby’s blue. The baby’s blue. The baby’s blue.’

Ben tried to pull away, but John held on.  ‘The... baby... is... blue.’

‘What baby?’

A slight pause as John Sykes revved breath into his lungs. And then, ‘The whizz-bangs are coming. The whizz-bangs are coming.’

Suddenly, a woman’s voice shouted across the restroom. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘The whizz-bangs are coming.’

She rushed across the room and grabbed John’s hand. ‘Come on, Da. Leave the man alone.’

Da wasn’t listening. ‘The whizz-bangs...’

Connie Sykes fixed her good eye on Ben. ‘What in God’s name are you doing in here?’

‘I’m sorry. I was told to wait here for you. He just came up to me and started talking about whizz-bangs. Then he grabbed my arm.’

Connie tried to prize her father’s hand away from Ben’s by focussing on one finger at a time. ‘Who… told… you… to… wait… in… here?’

‘One of the staff.’

Connie loosened two fingers. ‘Well, she shouldn’t have. You have no business here.’

‘The baby’s blue.’ Weaker now. As if the words were coming from inside a crusher.

‘Don’t be silly, Da. You’re talking gobbledegook again. Let go of the man’s hand.’

‘The whizz—’

‘There aren’t any whizz-bangs here, Da. The whizz-bangs are all gone now.’

Ben wrenched his hand free. ‘What the hell are whizz-bangs?’

Connie held onto her father’s hand as if it might leap into action again at any moment. ‘Never you mind.’

A whining noise in the back of John Sykes’s throat.

‘How dare you come in here upsetting him like that? How would you like it if I came into your house and started throwing my weight around?’

Ben was about to argue that he wasn’t doing any such thing, but then thought better of it. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Frank Crowley.’

The whine in John’s throat gave way to several choking sobs.

‘If you come anywhere near Sunnyside again, I’ll call the police. Is that clear?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset any—’

‘Your sort never do, do they? Nosing about in other folk’s business.’

‘We’re just trying to find out what happened to Hannah Heath. I’d hardly call that poking my…’

‘Come on, Da, let’s get you back to your room.’

‘Can we talk once you’ve settled him down? It won’t take long.’

‘Get out of here. And don’t come back.’

‘Do you know if Frank Crowley is about to come into any money?’

Connie turned to face him. Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? And then it was gone. ‘I don’t know the first thing about that oaf.’

‘Maybe you heard something? Staff talking?’

‘No.’

Ben was pleased with himself. He’d engaged a hostile witness. ‘Have you noticed anything unusual about him lately?’

‘Everything about him is unusual.’

‘You don’t seem very fond of Mr Crowley?’

‘If you want tittle-tattle, go and talk to the staff. No, actually, don’t. I’m banning them from speaking to you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re a nuisance.’

‘I’m just trying—’

‘Let me guess. Hannah’s mother’s paying you a king’s ransom to find her daughter, and you’re trying to justify your ridiculous costs by asking pointless questions. Am I close?’

‘We’re trying to find Hannah. That’s all.’

‘Anyone with half a brain knows the girl is dead. She was more than likely dead within twenty-four hours of going missing. Stop wasting everyone’s time. And stop giving false hope to her parents. If you want my opinion, her body will be found by a couple walking their dog. Or some kids playing somewhere that they shouldn’t. Just leave her parents alone and let them come to terms with their loss.’