The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) (8 page)

Frank Crowley was in a positively good mood. He felt like climbing on top of his mobile home and sharing his good news with the whole world. Well, the residents of the caravan park, at least. He’d pulled. And a fine looking bird, too. Not the usual hog on heat found in Feelham’s watering holes. No, sir. This was a knock-your-eyeballs-out kinda girl. Too skinny, if you wanted to get picky, but pretty enough. Beautiful blonde hair and eyes like windows to his dreams.

She won’t call you.

Frank tried to ignore Pessimistic Voice. 

What’s a pretty girl like that going to want with an overweight slob like you, Frankie-boy?

He grabbed a fresh can of beer from the fridge and sat down at a small table in his kitchenette. He popped the tab, took a swig, and looked down at his bloated belly. He just needed a good woman to help him keep things in check. Cook him some proper meals and give him some regular exercise in the bedroom. It was too damned easy for a single man to stop off at Pizza Express and get a seven inch with pepperoni, cheese and bacon. Too easy for a single man to spend his evenings down the pub shooting pool with a bunch of losers.

Like attracts like.

Frank didn’t care. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood. Not only had he pulled, he was also about to quit his job. If that didn’t call for three cheers and three beers, then nothing did. No more stupid nursing home. No more unblocking toilets and fiddling with faulty radiators. No more sweating his arse off up ladders tracing faulty wiring. No more oiling rusty hinges and watching rusty old folk catching flies. No, sir. His days of being underpaid, under-appreciated and under the cosh were gone. 

Frank was also buoyed by having the latest instalment of his money secreted in the Den at his mother’s house. He’d even had a look online at wigs and toupees, just to tide him over until he could afford a proper hair transplant. So far he’d got seven grand stashed away. Hardly enough for a decent motor, but that didn’t matter anymore than an extra wasp in a wasp’s nest. It was time to up the stakes. Time for that tired old nag he’d been backing all his life to be sent to the knacker’s yard in favour of a proper racing filly.

But how much was his secret really worth? A hundred grand? Two hundred? More than that? After trawling the internet, he’d found a bungalow on the market similar to the one owned by the Target. It had been ‘priced realistically for a quick sale’. Six hundred and fifty thousand. Enough to make Frank imagine combing a full head of hair on a golden beach somewhere in the Mediterranean.

On top of the four pints he’d downed in The Three Horseshoes, Frank was on his second can of Special Brew. There was a nice warm glow rising from the base of his belly, spreading goodwill to his brain. Unfortunately, his brain wasn’t spreading accurate thoughts around his head. By the time Frank had finished the second can and started on a third, the stakes had risen considerably. A cool million bucks. With a one-way ticket to Honolulu thrown in for good measure.

He closed his eyes and imagined a harem of pretty girls hanging onto his arm and his every word. Fighting over the right to suck his dick. His imagination didn’t work as well for his libido as his stash of films did, but well enough to make his manhood sniff the zip on his jeans.

‘I’ll buy a boat,’ Frank told the empty mobile home. ‘Live the high life on the high seas.’

But boats cost the earth. Or the ocean, depending on which way you look at it.

And wasn’t that the truth. Perhaps a guesthouse down in Margate or Brighton was a more realistic option. Anyway, he’d have plenty of time to decide what to do with his hard-earned money once the deal was sealed. The important thing right now was to strike while the iron was hot. And the iron was hotter than a hard-core film. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled the Target.

The Target didn’t seem too pleased to hear from him; even less pleased to hear his demand for a cool half million pounds sterling. That was a shame. Perhaps a reality check might help to make the Target see reason. ‘I’ll give you a month to get the money. If you don’t, I’ll start talking to the cops.’

No response.

‘You there?’

A loud sigh.

Frank’s mind rummaged for something to say that might provoke a response. ‘Perhaps I’ll give the Daily Mail a ring. They like a good story.’

‘Do you really think anyone’s going to listen to a fool like you?’

Frank looked at the phone as if it had sprouted teeth and bitten him. ‘I’m not a fool.’

‘You are if you think I can raise that kind of money.’

‘You’ve got asserts.’

‘Asserts? What in God’s name are you talking about?’

Frank drew on the patience of a thousand clipped ears from his mother. ‘Asserts. Your house for starters.’

The Target laughed. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to sell my house, do you?’

Frank did. And he was in no mood to play games. ‘Yep. And you will. Unless you want your grubby little secret going public.’

The Target was silent for long enough to worry Frank. ‘Are you still there?’

‘It will take a lot more than a month to sell my house.’

Frank’s thoughts waded through a Special Brew bog. ‘Liar.’

‘I’m not lying. It’ll take months to find a buyer. Then there are surveys, searches and legalities.’

‘Don’t start wrapping things up in fancy words. You might think I’m stupid, but I ain’t.’

‘You’re a filthy little pervert. I know that.’

‘I don’t care what you call me. You’ve got a month.’

‘I’ll give you another ten thousand. Final offer.’

Frank laughed and almost wheezed himself into a hernia. ‘You’ve got a sense of humour; I’ll give you that much. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you sign the house over to me.’

‘Do you seriously think I’m going to walk into a solicitor’s office and sign my house over to you?’

For the first time in his life, Frank wished he had a better relationship with his brother. Ronnie would be well buffed up on legal matters. ‘You will if you know what’s good for you.’

The Target went quiet. And then: ‘And you expect me to trust you?’

‘You haven’t got a lot of choice.’

‘If you want my house, you’ll have to hand over the evidence first.’

Frank resorted to a cliché he’d once heard in a film. ‘My word is my bond.’

‘Your word isn’t worth a turd.’

‘It’s worth a lot more than you think. Especially in the wrong ear,’ Frank said, delighted to be matching the Target cheap shot for cheap shot. He took another slug of Special Brew and belched down the phone. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

Not so high and mighty now, are you?
‘When shall we do it?’

‘I need time to think.’

Frank lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘What’s to think about? You give me your house and you’re free to do whatever you want.’

‘And where am I supposed to live?’

‘You can have my mobile home. Call it a straight swap, if you like.’

‘Do you really think I ever want to set foot in that shit-hole?’

‘I’m sure you’ll adapt.’

The Target put down the phone.

Frank tried several times to call back, but the Target wasn’t picking up. The phone kept going straight to answerphone. He thought about leaving a message, but decided he might say something he would later regret in court. It wouldn’t do him any favours to start ranting and raving down the phone.

He finished his cigarette and dropped the butt into an empty beer can. He threw the phone on the table. The Target could go to hell. He was in the driving seat, and all roads led to Brighton. Or Margate. Or wherever he could find a guesthouse fit for purpose.

Paranoia whispered bad omens in Frank’s ear.
What if the Target pays Mother a visit?

‘No way. Not going to happen.’

It would only take a pair of bolt croppers to break the lock on the bedroom door.

‘The Target doesn’t know where Mother lives.’

Easy enough to find out, Frankie-boy.

‘Mother wouldn’t let anyone into the house. Not if she didn’t know them.’

Easy as ABC to trick an old woman.

‘Not this one. She’s still sharp as a tack.’

I wouldn’t be too surprised if she tried to take a peek in the Den herself.

Frank felt on more solid ground. ‘She wouldn’t get in there.’

What if she gets Brother Ronnie to force open the door?

The thought of the Golden Egg in the hands of the Golden Boy was almost enough to make Frank risk a lengthy driving ban by driving straight to Mother’s house and retrieving his booty.

Let’s be frank, Frank. You haven’t thought this thing through properly.

Frank stared out the window at the black, inky darkness. He would need to be extra careful. Vigilant. Not allow himself to get carried away with thoughts of the main prize. The Target was dangerous. Mother was dangerous. And Ronnie was double dangerous. A rat wrapped up in snakeskin. Truth was, he couldn’t trust anyone right now.

What about Maddie?

Frank thought long and hard. It wasn’t easy to figure things out when you had half a gallon of Special Brew sloshing around inside you. ‘She’s gorgeous.’

Maybe so. But what if the Target has sent her to spy on you? A mole in the hole!

Frank shook his head. ‘No way.’

Are you thinking with your brain or your bollocks?

Frank staggered to the fridge and fetched another can. Fosters this time. The last thing he needed was a thumping head in the morning to lay siege to his plans. He popped the tab, took a few sips, and shivered. The mobile home was bloody freezing. He only had a paraffin heater, and it was way too risky lighting it at night when he’d been on the piss. He was prone to passing out. He didn’t want to go to Heaven on a cloud of paraffin fumes.

Or set the place on fire.

No, sir. He didn’t fancy being barbequed by carelessness. He sat back down at the table and lit a fresh cigarette.

You’d do well to double up security at Mother’s.

Frank nodded. Good advice. He’d fit a better lock first thing in the morning after he’d quit his job. He’d also tell Mother not to open the door to anyone she didn’t know.

She’s gonna want a valid reason for your sudden show of concern.

Frank rummaged in his ransacked head for a valid reason why she shouldn’t open the door to strangers. She wasn’t known for cowering behind locked doors.

You could tell her there’s a conman going around the neighbourhood robbing old folk.

Frank liked that. He was willing to bet she had some money stashed away somewhere. Planting the idea of a conman in her head might just scare her enough.

She’s a stubborn old bird.

Wasn’t that the truth? Perhaps he needed more radical action. Like breaking in when she was at bingo on a Tuesday evening. Smash the glass in the back door. She always left the key on the inside. Nick one or two things off the mantelpiece and scarper. That ought to put the frighteners on her.

Frank toasted this plan with a good, long draught of beer. He banged the can down on the table. ‘Just enough to ruffle her feathers.’

He made sure that his cigarette was extinguished before retiring to the bedroom. He crawled into bed without undressing. It was too cold to strip off. The bed stank of a vile concoction of damp and piss. He had plans to buy a beautiful king-sized waterbed when he had the money. Somewhere he could stretch out and relax properly. He imagined a fifty-inch screen fixed to the ceiling, playing endless reruns of his films. The thought of owning a guesthouse where he could make more and more movies of unsuspecting guests going about their private business made Frank forget his troubles.

‘I am Quentin Tarantino,’ he told the empty bedroom. The words drifted out of his mouth on a plume of vapour. Frank closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to wander into territories that might get a man locked up in prison. He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips and a hand on his crotch.

‘So what’s your first impression of Crowley?’ Geoff asked Maddie.

‘The guy creeps me out.’

Ben sighed. ‘So stay away from him.’

‘If you’ve got nothing positive to say, go and make a pot of tea,’ Geoff snapped. ‘Maddie’s been out all night putting her neck on the line while you were sitting in a nice warm car.’

Ben massaged the back of his neck. ‘Hardly. The heater’s broken.’

‘Mine’s white, two sugars.’

‘I’m well aware how you take your—’

‘I’ll make the tea,’ Maddie said. She walked out of the office before anyone objected.

Ben didn’t want tea. He wanted Maddie and his father to realise how risky it was setting Maddie up with Crowley. Irresponsible, even. It was tantamount to playing Russian roulette with Crowley’s feelings.

Geoff interrupted Ben’s thoughts. ‘I know you like her, son.’

‘I’m just worried something bad will happen to her.’

‘She’s more than capable of looking after herself.’

Ben wasn’t convinced. ‘As far as I remember, you didn’t even want to employ her.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘You just say what suits you.’

‘I say what I see, lad. And I’m honest enough to admit I made a mistake. She seems very capable.’

Maddie walked back into the office with a tray of tea. She poured three cups and handed Geoff his.

‘Thanks.’ He poured some tea into a saucer. ‘So tell me what happened, love.’

Maddie recounted the evening as they drank their tea.

‘You say he’s got money coming to him? Did he say where from?’

‘No. But he looked all cagey. Like it was some kind of big secret.’

‘Someone in his family might be about to croak it,’ Ben said. ‘He might be in line for an inheritance. Anyway, I don’t see what money has got to do with Hannah Heath.’

‘He might be blackmailing someone,’ Geoff said. ‘Don’t underestimate people like him. Undesirables have their fingers in many pies. Murder, extortion, theft, blackmail. You name it, they’re at it.’

‘But the Heaths aren’t being blackmailed,’ Ben said. ‘Hannah’s boyfriend isn’t being blackmailed. So who would he be blackmailing?’

Geoff slurped some tea from his saucer and then put it down on the desk. ‘It doesn’t have to be someone related to Hannah Heath.’

‘He either killed Hannah ages ago, or he’s got nothing to do with it,’ Ben said. ‘I know which one my money’s on.’

‘You need to keep an open mind,’ Geoff said. ‘Rule nothing out.’

Ben was fed up with speculation. ‘I’m going to take Maddie home.’

‘Not so fast, Bronco,’ Geoff said. ‘Seb Smith phoned earlier. Said he’s managed to take a look at the CCTV footage.’

‘Did he find anything?’ Maddie asked.

Geoff nodded. ‘He saw Crowley going into the tradesman’s entrance carrying an empty shopping bag at 2:09 a.m. on Sunday, sixth of August. Then he came back out half an hour later. The bag was full. He shoved it in the boot and drove away.’

‘It still doesn’t prove anything,’ Ben said. ‘It might have been tools or spare parts.’

‘Next you’ll be telling me he was sneaking into Sunnyside at night to do his dirty laundry.’

Maddie laughed.

Ben didn’t. ‘It’s still not evidence, though, is it?’

Geoff ignored him. ‘Seb watched another week’s worth of footage, but Crowley didn’t make any more appearances.’

‘What do you reckon he was doing?’ Maddie asked.

Geoff shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. Maybe he left something in that building. Something incriminating.’

Ben didn’t buy it. ‘But what? It seems obvious to me that Hannah was abducted where we found the name badge.’

‘Maybe Hannah dropped something,’ Maddie suggested.

Ben laughed. ‘What? Enough to fill a shopping bag?’

‘All right. You don’t have to be sarcastic. I’m just thinking aloud.’

Ben massaged the back of his neck and looked away. He didn’t want to fall out with Maddie. He didn’t want to fall out with anyone. He just needed a good night’s sleep for once.

‘I suggest we go full steam ahead,’ Geoff said. ‘The sooner we buckle that bastard’s wheel, the better.’

‘And what happens if Maddie winds up being his next victim?’ Ben said. ‘What then?’

‘There’s a huge difference between a random abduction and what Crowley perceives to be a close relationship,’ Geoff said. ‘Many killers have perfectly normal relationships with their wives and lovers. It’s as if they somehow manage to draw a line between their victims and their private life. Like there’s a switch that flips between the two.’

‘So they don’t hurt anyone close to them?’ Maddie said.

‘Not as a rule. They can even raise kids and hold down regular work. Go about their day-to-day business as if nothing’s amiss. But then the switch flips, and boom, they’re a completely different person.’

‘And you think putting Maddie in the firing line is worth the risk?’

‘Like I said—’

‘I know what you said,’ Ben interrupted. ‘But you don’t know how Crowley might react if something goes wrong. If he cottons on to what she’s doing.’

‘I’d like to think that someone cared enough about me to try to find me,’ Maddie said.

‘Well put!’ Geoff said. ‘Caring about other folk is what makes us human. It’s why I became a copper all those years ago. To stop the scum of the earth having it all their own way. To help people sleep easy in their bed at night. To reassure them they could walk into town of an evening and not end up the victim of a gang of thugs.’

Hasn’t worked though, has it?
Ben thought. ‘That’s why mum won’t go to the chippy on a Friday night without an escort.’

Geoff ignored him. ‘We should give Crowley a couple of days to let the dust settle, and then arrange to meet him again.’

‘In the pub?’ Maddie asked.

‘Yeah. Keep it on neutral territory for now. But we’ll have to get him to take you back to his place soon. We haven’t got enough time to let you build it up too slowly.’

‘You said it didn’t matter?’ Ben said. ‘Seeing as the Heaths are paying.’

Geoff stroked his beard. ‘I said we’ve got more time than the police.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Talking of time, you’ll be drawing your pension by the time you get around to letting your feelings out.’

Ben’s mind snapped to attention. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Geoff glanced at Maddie. ‘He knows full well what I mean.’

A blush crept up Ben’s neck. Why did his father have to humiliate him in front of Maddie? Did he get off on it? Making him look small. Making him seem inadequate. ‘It’s late. I need to get Maddie home.’

Geoff didn’t seem to hear him. He spoke to Maddie. ‘Next time you meet Crowley, see if you can get him to tell you more about the money.’

‘Maybe he’s bullshitting,’ Ben said. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone spouted a load of crap to impress a pretty girl.’

Maddie grinned. ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’

Ben looked away. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘You’re right,’ Geoff said. ‘He might well be bullshitting. But something tells me he isn’t. I’ve got a funny feeling in my gut. I think the money might be linked to Hannah Heath.’

‘How?’ Ben said.

‘I don’t know,’ Geoff conceded. ‘We need to flatter him. Cajole him. Press his buttons and see what’s ticking in that head of his.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Maddie promised.

‘I know it’s a fine line, but you need to make him understand that you have standards. Set them out as early as possible, but all the while, dangle a carrot in front of him. Make him think there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.’

‘String him along, in other words,’ Ben said. ‘That’s a dangerous game to play if he’s half the psychopath you reckon he is.’

‘You’d better take Maddie home.’

‘Can I borrow your car?’

‘Whatever for?’ Geoff said. ‘It’s not a works’ car.’

No, it’s a bloody show-off’s car
, Ben thought. ‘The heater’s not working in the Fiesta. It barely clears the windscreen.’

‘Then take a can of de-icer.’

‘Maybe I should get Maddie to blow on the windscreen while I’m about it.’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm. I want to sell the car in the New Year. The last thing I need is you pranging it.’

Or perhaps we could take you with us so you can warm it up with all your hot air
, Ben thought.  ‘I’m more likely to crash the Fiesta if I can’t see where the hell I’m going.’

‘My car’s worth at least five grand,’ Geoff said. ‘And you don’t need me to remind you that every penny counts.’

‘And how much is my life worth?’ Ben argued. ‘Fifty pence? A pound?’

‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’

‘I only want to borrow it until I get the heater mended.’

Geoff relented. ‘Don’t you dare damage it. If you do, it’s coming out of your wages.’

You’re all heart
, Ben thought.