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

by Mark Tilbury

  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 bas
e 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.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Hannah Heath lay in the darkness of her living tomb. She’d not eaten for days. Not since being stupid enough to believe she could actually escape this shit-hole. Thankfully, the baby was still moving about inside her, but she didn’t know how much longer it could survive without sustenance.

  The bottom of her back hurt like murder. Trying to sleep on the semi-inflated airbed was like trying to sleep on a park bench. To make matters worse, she could only lie on her back because of her condition. The stench in the basement was overbearing. Damp, excrement and piss. A vile cocktail. It was also freezing cold, with the two-bar electric fire her only source of heat.

  She only got up to use the toilet bucket. Thankfully, nature had rendered her constipated, so it was just about possible to pee in the dark and make her way back to bed without too many mishaps. She spent most of her time under the duvet, begging God to help her. God seemed otherwise engaged. Once, when she was about six, she’d asked God to bring her daddy back. Not because she didn’t like being on her own with her mother, but because most of the other kids at school had daddies. She just wanted to be normal. Have a big strong daddy to sweep her up in his arms and hoist her onto his shoulders.

  God hadn’t brought him back. Her daddy had gone to Australia. To start a new life, apparently. Why would he want a new life? She’d found Australia on the globe. It was right around the other side of the world. Why would he go that far away? Her mother said he was selfish. Why couldn’t he have just stayed at home and been selfish?

  Her selfish daddy still sent her a birthday card and a Christmas card each year, with a cheque inside for mummy to pay into the bank. Mummy said she was saving the money for when Hannah reached eighteen. Then she could spend it on whatever she liked. Hannah thought eighteen seemed like a lifetime away.

  But God had granted her a new daddy. A different daddy. Vic. A funny name, like the vapour rub mummy put on her chest when she had a blocked nose. Vic looked funny, with his bald head and podgy tummy. Vic was nice. He was always happy to help her with her reading and writing. He also took her swimming with mummy every Sunday at the Splash swimming pool in Aldercot. Before long, Hannah stopped thinking about her real daddy; apart from when he sent her a card with a cheque inside.

  The baby kicked inside her. A reminder. Hey, I’m still here, mum. I still need you. Hannah reached beneath her sweatshirt and rubbed her stomach. The skin was stretched tight. She wanted to hold the tiny life growing inside her, reassure it that mummy would do everything in her power to make sure it had a happy life, but she couldn’t make promises any more. Promises were for all those lucky people in the outside world who had normal lives.

  A teacher at secondary school had once told the class that everyone had a life-lesson to learn. As usual, no one had been interested in what he was saying. Everything seemed so short-term back then. Most kids were more concerned with who was dating whom. Now, as Hannah sat in the dark stinking basement with nothing but her thoughts for company, she believed that the teacher was right. And her lesson was loss. She’d lost her father. Her freedom. And now she was going to lose her baby.

  Her thoughts turned to Robert. She missed him so much. They’d been so happy together. Hannah couldn’t have wished for a better man to spend the rest of her life with. They were going to have three children. A nice semi-detached house. A garden for the kids to play in. Holidays abroad. One day Robert would take over his father’s business. A perfect landscape for a perfect life.

  Except there was no such thing as a perfect life, was there? Dreams were for fools. She tried to imagine what Robert was doing. Where he was. What he was thinking. One thing was for certain: she would never see him again. They would never have their perfect house, their perfect marriage, their perfect life.

  She closed her eyes and imagined his arms around her. Resting her head on his chest. The hairs tickling her face. The smell of Boss aftershave. The rise and fall of his chest. His heart beating, slow and rhythmic. The warmth of his body. The faint smell of mouthwash on his breath. Sometimes they would talk until the early hours of the morning, effortless conversation that could switch from serious to goofing around in the blink of an eye. It was what Hannah liked to call comfortable love.

  The baby shifted position and kicked again. Hard.

  ‘I know you’ll never get to know me. But please remember that I love you. Do you hear? I love you more than anything else in the world.’

  The bump in her belly twitched.

  ‘Whatever you do, wherever you go, mummy will always be watching over you. When you go to school. When you get your first girlfriend.’

  Another twitch. Maybe a protest. Hey, I might be a girl!

  ‘Your dad thinks you’re a boy. I reckon he just wants someone to take to watch Arsenal. Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. A load of overpaid men kicking a ball around a field and acting as if it’s a matter of life and death. They ought to spend some time locked in this shitty basement to find out the true meaning of life and death.’

  The baby declined to comment. Twitch, kick or otherwise.

  ‘I want you to know that if you ever have any problems, ever need to talk to someone, I’ll always be here for you.’

  Of course the kid will have problems; it’s going to be raised by a lunatic.

  Hannah tried not to think about that. She clung to the vague hope that the baby might be sold to a childless couple. Parents who would raise it in a loving environment and treat it as their own.

  The basement door opened. A sudden shaft of light pierced the darkness. And then a voice. Hannah’s first human contact in what felt like
weeks. ‘I’m putting a torch and a bulb on the floor for you. Though God knows you don’t deserve it. I want you to replace the bulb.’

  Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I need food and water.’

  ‘You’re in no position to make demands.’

  ‘Please. The baby…’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s going to die if you don’t let me have—’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. A few days without food and water isn’t going to hurt it. If that was the case, a child would never be born in Africa.’

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. What you’re suffering from is called shame. Get over it. If you replace the bulb, then we’ll see about food. And don’t get any more clever ideas about ambushing me. You fooled me once, so more fool me. You won’t do it again.’

  ‘Please…’

  The door slammed shut. And then the worst sound of all: the audible click of the lock. Hannah could see a small circle of light at the top of the steps where the torch had been left on.

  Better go and get it before the batteries go dead.

  She shoved the duvet out of the way and climbed slowly off the airbed. Just the thought of being able to see properly again was enough to motivate her to walk across the freezing cold basement and up the steps.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben parked in The Three Horseshoes car park and kept the engine running. ‘Even if Crowley has abducted her, the chances of her still being alive are next to zilch.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘For starters, where the hell would he keep a pregnant woman? He lives in a caravan up on Constitution Hill. Don’t you think someone might have seen her?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘And the cops have spoken to him. More than once. Where do you think he put her? Under the bed?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Ben. It doesn’t suit you. Anyway, he could have moved her somewhere.’