The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) (6 page)

Frank noticed that her clothes were hanging off her; they looked like rags on a corpse. ‘How are you keeping, Mother?’

‘What do you care?’

Frank found a piece of gristle in his mouth. He pretended to cough and spat it into his hand. ‘You know I care.’

‘You care about coming here and feeding your face once a week. I know that much.’

Frank dropped the gristle on the floor. ‘That’s not true.’

‘Ronnie comes round every weekend. And some nights when he ain’t too busy at work.’

Busy ripping people off
, Frank thought. ‘That’s nice of him.’

‘I wish you were more like him. Had a normal life. A good woman. Settled down.’

Frank ignored her. He ate his dinner and tried not to rise to the bait. His mother seemed to think that being a solicitor made Ronnie some kind of hero. A man of the people. As far as Frank was concerned, solicitors just made money off other people’s bad luck and misery. ‘I’m happy enough.’

‘He’s got a nice house, a good job and a lovely wife.’

Pretentious arsehole
, Frank thought.
And as for his stupid wife, she looks more plastic than a carrier bag.

‘Holidays abroad.’

‘I don’t like foreign countries – full of foreigners,’ Frank joked.

Agnes didn’t laugh. ‘That’s your trouble, boy: no ambition. You’ve been like that since you learned to wipe your own backside.’

Frank thought about the downstairs loo. At least I can still remember how to wipe my own backside. ‘I’m happy enough. I’ve got my job. I’ve got my home.’

Agnes snorted. A bogey flew from her nose and landed in her half-eaten dinner. ‘You call that tin-shack a home?’

Frank almost gagged. He prayed with all his heart she didn’t fork the disgusting thing into her mouth. He felt like reminding his mother that it was her idea to ship him out to the mobile home in the first place. Hers and that sugar-coated brother of his.

‘You need a woman.’

Frank almost told her he had one. But that would only raise questions that he didn’t care to answer. ‘I manage.’

‘Scrape by.’

Frank pushed his plate away. The fallen bogey had chased his appetite out of the building. ‘I’m stuffed.’

‘You won’t be wanting pudding, then?’

‘Can I take it home with me?’

Agnes didn’t look impressed. ‘And ruin it by heating it up in that damned microwave?’

‘The microwave won’t ruin it.’

She snorted again. Thankfully, this time, bogey-free. ‘All this modern rubbish ain’t done nothing but put people in a hurry.’

Frank failed to see the logic, but she was right to a point; he was in a hurry; to get his latest wedge of money secreted upstairs in the Den. ‘People are just busier these days.’

‘Busy, my eye – impatient, more like. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘I’ll have one in a minute. I need to go up to my room.’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing in particular. I want to check something.’

‘What have you got up there, boy? What you hiding?’

Frank’s heart lost its rhythm. For a nasty moment, he thought she might be able to see inside his head, right the way through to his darkest secrets. ‘I ain’t got nothing up there.’

‘Don’t shame yourself by treating me like I’m stupid. I raised you. I know that sneaky look when I see it.’

Frank tried to smile. It felt more like a leer. ‘I know you’re not stupid.’

She knows you’ve got something up there. Knows it as sure as she knows your name.

Frank scraped back his chair. ‘I won’t be long.’

He hurried into the hall and took the money out of his parka pocket. He then ran upstairs as fast as his bulky frame could carry him. His room was the last doorway on the landing next to what used to be the bathroom. Mother didn’t use it anymore. The bathroom was full of boxes and discarded junk. She claimed to strip-wash, but Frank didn’t believe her. She whiffed of piss and burnt toast. He didn’t dare contemplate what the burnt toast smell was; suffice to say, it was probably linked to her toiletry needs.

He fished in the pocket of his jeans and took out a large silver key. He looked over his shoulder before putting the key into the lock; just in case Mother had somehow peeled back the years and snuck up the stairs behind him.

Frank’s future was in this room. His Golden Egg. His payday. His every-dog-has-its-day-day.

Maddie walked into her bedroom at just after midday on Sunday. She sat down on a pink cushioned stool in front of her pine dressing table. A small wooden cross lay on the dresser next to a photo of her mother in a tarnished silver frame. The cross had been gifted to her by a young African girl when she’d visited Rwanda with her father ten years ago.

She reached behind her neck and unclipped a delicate silver chain holding her mother’s wedding ring. She put the ring and the chain down beside the cross. She didn’t want to have to explain it if she met Frank Crowley tonight. The ring had been a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday.

She looked at the photo of her mother crouched on the parched Rwandan earth. The picture told Maddie that she had her mother’s green eyes and her straight blonde hair. Pastor Tom reckoned she also had her mother’s stubborn streak. Maddie thought her mother looked kind. And pretty. And far too young to die. She’s been brutally murdered by a gang of savages when Maddie was two years old. Brutes who thought it was a good idea to come into the village when the menfolk were away at work and attack helpless women. A few had managed to flee, taking Maddie and some of the other children with them. Everyone else had died. Raped and murdered. Discarded like lumps of worthless meat and left to burn in their ramshackle homes.

Maddie’s thoughts turned to Ben. The gangly, shy guy she’d first got to know at Youth Club. She liked Ben. A lot. Liked the way he thanked her endlessly for helping him to rescue his father from Penghilly’s Farm. The way he never claimed any credit for his role in saving them. The way he blushed and turned away when she offered praise. How he tolerated his father’s impatience, but no longer kowtowed to his bullying. Ben was a good guy, and from Maddie’s limited experience of men, good guys were pretty thin on the ground.

She looked at her mother’s picture again. ‘I’m going to be really busy soon. I’m working with Ben. We’re going to be looking for a missing girl. She’s pregnant. Do you think she’s still alive?’

Her mother wasn’t saying. Maddie closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. They had a spiritual meeting once a month at the Pentecostal church. Some of the members claimed to ‘go into the light and make contact with spirits’. Maddie wasn’t sure if they really did, or just
believed
they did. The two things seemed intrinsically linked, like the subconscious mind and the conscious mind.   

Maddie had tried on many occasions to go into the light. Talk to her mother. She’d even bought a book on meditation. Studied the various techniques illustrated to calm the mind, such as controlled breathing and visualisation. But it was hard to empty your mind when it was so full of questions.

A woman at the church, Josie, a kindly soul in her seventies, had advised Maddie to imagine walking down a series of steps into a beautiful garden. The Garden of Healing. Beautiful flowers and tall oak trees filled the garden, with a clear blue stream running through the middle of it. Josie had called it ‘God’s Stream’. To cleanse and purify the soul. Josie had also told her that the spirits would come and bathe with you in the stream. But you had to be patient. Allow things to happen rather than try to force them. Maddie had managed to follow Josie’s instructions, but as yet, her mother had failed to materialise. Still, it was early days, and the experience had proved both pleasant and uplifting.

Maddie’s need for spiritual fulfilment wasn’t rooted in enlightenment. She just wanted to talk to her mother. Ask her why she’d stayed behind in that Rwandan village. Why she hadn’t just run for the hills. Her father had told her that it was an act of selflessness. It had allowed some of the others time to escape. Acted as a distraction. But why did she have to be such a martyr? Did God pin a medal to your chest for being a hero? And if so, what use was a medal when your only child cried herself to sleep at night because Chris Smith had called her a lard-arse in the playground?

A light knock on the door. ‘Madeline?’

Her father. She hadn’t yet told him of the plan to get close to Crowley. She didn’t know how he’d react after events at Penghilly’s Farm. ‘Come in.’

Pastor Tom walked into the bedroom and removed his trilby hat. ‘Will you be joining us for lunch?’

‘I’m not very hungry. I’ll grab a sandwich later.’

‘Rhonda’s made apple crumble for afters.’

‘Sounds lovely. Maybe later.’

‘Will you be joining us for the service tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

‘On a Sunday? I hope they’re paying you well.’

‘The job’s seven days a week, dad. Like yours.’

Tom sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It only seems like five minutes ago I used to sit here making up stories until you fell asleep.’

‘Bad stories, if I remember.’

Tom laughed. ‘I have no imagination. I’m more of a facts man.’

‘I liked your stories. Especially the one about the little girl who shrank the nasty teacher so as she was smaller than the kids.’

‘I’m surprised you remember
that
.’

Maddie picked up her mother’s wedding ring. ‘I’ve got a good memory. I can remember right back to when we moved into this house.’

‘Really?’

Maddie nodded.

‘But you were only four.’

‘I remember the carpet in the front room with the swirly pattern. And how you hung a blanket up at my bedroom window in the summer because we didn’t have any curtains.’

‘Wow, that’s some memory.’

Maddie also remembered her father talking to God a lot. Once or twice she’d heard him sobbing. ‘It must have been hard coming back to England on your own and starting again.’

‘It’s what God had in mind for me.’

‘You could have stayed in Rwanda. Carried on with the school.’

‘God told me to go home. Told me that my work was done in Rwanda.’

‘Did He really speak to you?’

Tom nodded.

‘Did you actually see Him?’

‘Of sorts. But not in a vision, as you allude. He spoke in my heart. Set my course, so to speak. We are all but drivers, Madeline. God owns the road.’

‘Is that from the Bible?’

Tom smiled. ‘I made it up.’

‘Who says you don’t have an imagination?’

Tom’s smile faded. ‘So what’s so important that you can’t come to the service tonight?’

Maddie took a deep breath, as if about to jump into a fast-flowing river. ‘You know we’re trying to find out what happened to that missing girl?’

‘Hannah?’

Maddie nodded.

‘Poor child. My prayers are with her.’

She thought Hannah might need more than a prayer. A miracle, more like. ‘There’s this maintenance guy who works at the nursing home where Hannah works. We think he knows something.’

‘How so?’

Maddie told him everything they knew about Crowley, including his conviction for exposing himself to a schoolgirl.

‘So what are you proposing to do?’

Maddie outlined the plan.

‘And you think deceiving him is the best way forward?’

‘Under the circumstances, yes.’

‘Haven’t the police looked at him?’

‘Yes. But they can’t do much without any proper evidence. Their hands are tied.’

Tom put his hat down on the bed. ‘Bound by the law, more like. And for good reason.’

‘To protect criminals?’

‘To prevent vigilantism.’

‘I’d say it’s more likely to cause it than prevent it. Anyway, I’m only going to try to get close to him. See if he opens up.’

‘What if he wants to get intimate?’

‘I won’t let him.’

‘That’s assuming you’re in control.’

Maddie laughed. ‘I’ll tell him I’ve got a headache.’

‘This isn’t a joke, Madeline. What does Ben say about this?’

Maddie opted for a lie. ‘He’s cool.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you really need me to spell that out to you?’

Maddie did.

Tom seemed thoughtful for a few moments. And then: ‘Because he’s sweet on you.’

Maddie wrapped the silver chain around the base of the photo frame. ‘He’s just a friend. A good friend. Anyway, I’ll be carrying a transmitter. They’ll be able to hear everything. How cool is that?’

‘Not very cool if you’re screaming and begging for mercy.’

‘You didn’t seem so bothered when I wanted to help Ben rescue his dad from Penghilly’s Farm.’

‘Because I felt, on balance, it was the right thing to do. The man’s life was in danger.’

‘Hannah’s life is in danger.’

‘You don’t know what’s happened to her. She might already be…’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, dead. And you might well be next. If this man is responsible.’

‘And what if she’s not dead? What if Crowley’s got her hidden away somewhere? What if he’s raping and torturing her as we speak?’

‘You say she’s pregnant?’

‘About eight months.’

‘Okay. So let’s assume he
has
got her. What on earth would he want with a pregnant woman?’

‘Who knows how his mind works?’

‘All the more reason to take a step back and consider your options carefully’

‘I have. And I’m going to do it.’

‘And that’s your final word?’

Maddie tilted her head back. ‘That’s my final word.’

Tom smiled. ‘Your mother used to do that.’

‘What?’

‘Tilt her head back when her mind was set on something.’

Maddie picked up her mother’s picture. She studied it for a few moments. And then: ‘Do you still miss her?’

‘Every day.’

‘I wish I’d known her.’

‘You
do
know her, Madeline. She’s always with you. In your eyes. Your smile. The way you jut out your chin. Pick at your clothes when something is bothering you. In your voice. The way you end a sentence and turn away if you don’t want to carry on the conversation.’

‘I wish I could see her. Speak to her.’

‘You can. You just have to open your heart. Stop blaming her for what happened. Allow her speak.’

Maddie clutched her mother’s photo frame so tight the metal cut into her palm. ‘I want to. I want to so badly.’

‘And you will, Madeline. With time and patience, you will. Your mother is your guardian angel. Your keeper. Your very own gift from God.’