Read Online The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) by Mark Tilbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Tilbury
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heels. He took a pot of Brylcreem off his dressing table and applied a liberal dollop to his thinning hair. As soon as he had the Big Bucks, he would get himself a hair transplant. It was amazing how good those things were nowadays. Mother wouldn’t be able to recognise him. She’d probably choke on her own tongue if he turned up on her doorstep with a fully thatched roof.
Here was the question that was burning a dirty great hole in Frank’s brain: how much money should he ask for? Fifty grand? A hundred? It was all a matter of supply and demand. How much someone was willing to pay. Considering the Target had a rather nice house, you had to be talking six figures. And that was being generous.
He moved away from the wardrobe and wiped condensation from the single-glazed window. It was a wonder he hadn’t died from pneumonia living in this tin-tub. He’d still be living with Mother if his smart-arse brother hadn’t poked his nose in. It was all right for him, with his posh house and Barbie-doll wife. Rattling on about Mother needing to take it easy at her time of life. What sort of nonsense was that when you hitched it up to a handcart? Mother had only just turned sixty when they’d conspired to throw him out of home ten years ago.
Perhaps throw him out was a slight exaggeration. They’d clubbed together and bought Frank the mobile home. Their kindness knew no bounds. But here was the burning question: would Brother Ronnie and Barbie Doll want to live in this freezing cold caravan? No, sir. Not in a month of Sundays. Brother Ronnie and Barbie wouldn’t even house their stupid Westland Terrier in Frank’s so-called home. That bloody thing ate better than him, slept better than him and pissed up lampposts better than him. But every dog had its day, and Frank’s day was coming.
He put on his dark green parka with the fur-rimmed hood and zipped it right up to his chin. He checked that his cigarette was extinguished in the can before leaving. He also checked twice that the place was locked before he walked to the car. You couldn’t be too careful when you had everything to live for. And, for once in his miserable life, Frank did.
Unlike the past twenty years which had followed the Incident. It was as plain as a plum that Ronnie had poisoned Mother’s mind after that dreadful event. It seemed to have little bearing on the gossip and hearsay surrounding the case that Frank couldn’t remember a thing about flashing to the bloody schoolgirl. Mother hadn’t spoken to him for the best part of a year. He’d lost his job as an MOT tester at the local garage. Crap job and crap pay, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Condemned and marked down as a pervert for one stupid lapse.
Even his temporary abstention from booze did little to soften the blow as far as Mother was concerned. He sometimes felt her eyes following him around the house as if he was some kind of monster that couldn’t be trusted. What did she think? He was going to pounce on her bony carcass? Whip his thing out and show it to her? Jesus!
He’d even attempted suicide on two occasions. The first time was about two weeks after his mother and Brother Ronnie had told him he would have to move out. Frank couldn’t see for the life of him why. It was over ten years since the Incident.
‘Coz you need to stand on your own two feet,’ his mother had said. ‘Straighten your spine.’
Frank had tried to argue that he had a job. Paid her keep money. Fetched the coal in during winter. Mowed the grass. Helped with the dishes.
Brother Ronnie had told him it was already decided. Mother wasn’t getting any younger. She needed to take it easy at her time of life. Not walk around picking up his dirty socks off the floor.
Frank had walked out of the house and slammed the door behind him. Faced with what he believed to be a dire existence on the streets in the middle of winter, he’d parked his car in a back alley and attached a garden hose to the exhaust pipe.
Here was the question that was burning a dirty great hole in Frank’s brain: how much money should he ask for? Fifty grand? A hundred? It was all a matter of supply and demand. How much someone was willing to pay. Considering the Target had a rather nice house, you had to be talking six figures. And that was being generous.
He moved away from the wardrobe and wiped condensation from the single-glazed window. It was a wonder he hadn’t died from pneumonia living in this tin-tub. He’d still be living with Mother if his smart-arse brother hadn’t poked his nose in. It was all right for him, with his posh house and Barbie-doll wife. Rattling on about Mother needing to take it easy at her time of life. What sort of nonsense was that when you hitched it up to a handcart? Mother had only just turned sixty when they’d conspired to throw him out of home ten years ago.
Perhaps throw him out was a slight exaggeration. They’d clubbed together and bought Frank the mobile home. Their kindness knew no bounds. But here was the burning question: would Brother Ronnie and Barbie Doll want to live in this freezing cold caravan? No, sir. Not in a month of Sundays. Brother Ronnie and Barbie wouldn’t even house their stupid Westland Terrier in Frank’s so-called home. That bloody thing ate better than him, slept better than him and pissed up lampposts better than him. But every dog had its day, and Frank’s day was coming.
He put on his dark green parka with the fur-rimmed hood and zipped it right up to his chin. He checked that his cigarette was extinguished in the can before leaving. He also checked twice that the place was locked before he walked to the car. You couldn’t be too careful when you had everything to live for. And, for once in his miserable life, Frank did.
Unlike the past twenty years which had followed the Incident. It was as plain as a plum that Ronnie had poisoned Mother’s mind after that dreadful event. It seemed to have little bearing on the gossip and hearsay surrounding the case that Frank couldn’t remember a thing about flashing to the bloody schoolgirl. Mother hadn’t spoken to him for the best part of a year. He’d lost his job as an MOT tester at the local garage. Crap job and crap pay, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Condemned and marked down as a pervert for one stupid lapse.
Even his temporary abstention from booze did little to soften the blow as far as Mother was concerned. He sometimes felt her eyes following him around the house as if he was some kind of monster that couldn’t be trusted. What did she think? He was going to pounce on her bony carcass? Whip his thing out and show it to her? Jesus!
He’d even attempted suicide on two occasions. The first time was about two weeks after his mother and Brother Ronnie had told him he would have to move out. Frank couldn’t see for the life of him why. It was over ten years since the Incident.
‘Coz you need to stand on your own two feet,’ his mother had said. ‘Straighten your spine.’
Frank had tried to argue that he had a job. Paid her keep money. Fetched the coal in during winter. Mowed the grass. Helped with the dishes.
Brother Ronnie had told him it was already decided. Mother wasn’t getting any younger. She needed to take it easy at her time of life. Not walk around picking up his dirty socks off the floor.
Frank had walked out of the house and slammed the door behind him. Faced with what he believed to be a dire existence on the streets in the middle of winter, he’d parked his car in a back alley and attached a garden hose to the exhaust pipe.
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