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 B
Authors: Mark Tilbury
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He’d then fed the other end through the front passenger window and tightened it just enough to pinch it in place without choking off the deadly gas.
Frank wasn’t a man usually given to theatrical displays of emotion, but he’d sat behind the wheel of his old Vauxhall Cavalier and blubbed like a baby. Cried solidly for almost an hour. Then he’d reached down and held the ignition key between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Merry Christmas, Mother.’
He’d turned the key to bring life to the car and death to himself. Nothing. Just an empty clunk. He’d gawked at the dashboard and twisted the key again. Another hollow clunk. The damned battery was as flat as leftover beer. Frank had laughed. A nervous laugh laced with a good measure of hysteria. Maybe it was a sign. A sign he wasn’t meant to give up because of a few false allegations.
False?
Exaggerated.
Whatever you want to believe, Frankie-boy.
He didn’t believe in God, but something was looking out for him. And here was the really strange thing. The thing that made him wonder if all that church hocus-pocus didn’t have some merit. That car had started up the next day, right as rain. Or right as rust if you wanted a more accurate description.
The second suicide attempt had been a better effort. He’d swallowed fifteen paracetamol tablets along with half a bottle of scotch. Maybe enough to kill him, maybe not. Frank would never know. He’d been violently sick.
Those days were now well and truly behind him. He had everything to live for. Yes, sir. He was on his way to the top. He backed his Mondeo out of the parking bay and headed off to collect his money from the Drop Zone.
He parked a few yards away from the house and walked to the target area. Fourwinds Cottage. Which was really a bungalow. How dumb was that? As dumb as calling a ship the Flying Scotsman.
Frank’s bungalow.
That sounded much better. More in line with the truth.
Frank’s pad.
Frank’s mind leaned back in a soft leather armchair and sparked up a cigar. Frank’s Pad. He liked that. Liked it a lot. It made him imagine a woman in a chambermaid’s outfit, feeding grapes into his mouth and dirty promises into his ear.
The money was in its designated place, wrapped in newspaper and hidden inside a dustbin. He resisted an urge to unwrap it and count it out right there and then, but the freezing cold weather made him resort to the dangerous territory of trust. He’d have plenty of time to count it later.
By the time he reached his mother’s small terraced home, he was ravenous. The money was tucked away inside his coat. He would deposit it upstairs in his old room after dinner.
Agnes Crowley opened the front door and looked Frank up and down. She shook her head. ‘You’re late.’
‘I had things to do. I got here as quick as I could.’
‘You’re a single man. You don’t have nothing to do but get drunk.’
Frank opted for a lie. ‘I don’t get drunk.’
‘And rabbits don’t live in burrows.’
‘Are you going to let me in or just stand there insulting me?’
Agnes stepped aside and offered Frank her cheek.
He planted an awkward kiss on her leathery skin. He noticed whiskers sprouting from her chin, and one nasty strand growing like a vine around a mole on her cheek. Frank knew better than to offer any grooming advice to his mother.
‘Hang your coat up and go through.’
He hung his coat up on a row of pegs, careful to make sure the pocket containing the money faced the wall. He then followed his mother into the kitchen. He took a seat at a battered pine table. What was once his father’s seat. The old man was long gone, having jumped ship with some trollop from the Working Man’s Club when Frank was twelve years old. Frank only had his mother’s word for it that she was a trollop, but gone was gone, and Frank had never seen him again from that day to this.
He sniffed the air. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s steak and kidney
Frank wasn’t a man usually given to theatrical displays of emotion, but he’d sat behind the wheel of his old Vauxhall Cavalier and blubbed like a baby. Cried solidly for almost an hour. Then he’d reached down and held the ignition key between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Merry Christmas, Mother.’
He’d turned the key to bring life to the car and death to himself. Nothing. Just an empty clunk. He’d gawked at the dashboard and twisted the key again. Another hollow clunk. The damned battery was as flat as leftover beer. Frank had laughed. A nervous laugh laced with a good measure of hysteria. Maybe it was a sign. A sign he wasn’t meant to give up because of a few false allegations.
False?
Exaggerated.
Whatever you want to believe, Frankie-boy.
He didn’t believe in God, but something was looking out for him. And here was the really strange thing. The thing that made him wonder if all that church hocus-pocus didn’t have some merit. That car had started up the next day, right as rain. Or right as rust if you wanted a more accurate description.
The second suicide attempt had been a better effort. He’d swallowed fifteen paracetamol tablets along with half a bottle of scotch. Maybe enough to kill him, maybe not. Frank would never know. He’d been violently sick.
Those days were now well and truly behind him. He had everything to live for. Yes, sir. He was on his way to the top. He backed his Mondeo out of the parking bay and headed off to collect his money from the Drop Zone.
He parked a few yards away from the house and walked to the target area. Fourwinds Cottage. Which was really a bungalow. How dumb was that? As dumb as calling a ship the Flying Scotsman.
Frank’s bungalow.
That sounded much better. More in line with the truth.
Frank’s pad.
Frank’s mind leaned back in a soft leather armchair and sparked up a cigar. Frank’s Pad. He liked that. Liked it a lot. It made him imagine a woman in a chambermaid’s outfit, feeding grapes into his mouth and dirty promises into his ear.
The money was in its designated place, wrapped in newspaper and hidden inside a dustbin. He resisted an urge to unwrap it and count it out right there and then, but the freezing cold weather made him resort to the dangerous territory of trust. He’d have plenty of time to count it later.
By the time he reached his mother’s small terraced home, he was ravenous. The money was tucked away inside his coat. He would deposit it upstairs in his old room after dinner.
Agnes Crowley opened the front door and looked Frank up and down. She shook her head. ‘You’re late.’
‘I had things to do. I got here as quick as I could.’
‘You’re a single man. You don’t have nothing to do but get drunk.’
Frank opted for a lie. ‘I don’t get drunk.’
‘And rabbits don’t live in burrows.’
‘Are you going to let me in or just stand there insulting me?’
Agnes stepped aside and offered Frank her cheek.
He planted an awkward kiss on her leathery skin. He noticed whiskers sprouting from her chin, and one nasty strand growing like a vine around a mole on her cheek. Frank knew better than to offer any grooming advice to his mother.
‘Hang your coat up and go through.’
He hung his coat up on a row of pegs, careful to make sure the pocket containing the money faced the wall. He then followed his mother into the kitchen. He took a seat at a battered pine table. What was once his father’s seat. The old man was long gone, having jumped ship with some trollop from the Working Man’s Club when Frank was twelve years old. Frank only had his mother’s word for it that she was a trollop, but gone was gone, and Frank had never seen him again from that day to this.
He sniffed the air. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s steak and kidney
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