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

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘You can’t even take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ve done my best.’

  ‘But is your best anywhere near good enough, Crowley? Now you’ve gone and got your mother killed. And for what? Some filthy film that would have a psychiatrist scratching his head.’

  Crowley searched for a reason for his fetish. ‘I was experimenting.’

  ‘Experimenting? By filming people going to the toilet? What sort of experiment is that? To see how low you could sink?’

  ‘To see if I could actually do it.’

  ‘I wonder what your mother will make of your little foray into the world of film. Not exactly Stephen Spielberg, are you?’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘A piece of scum, Crowley. Yes, I know. Now tell me where the film is.’

  Crowley opted for silence. A mistake.

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll dismember your mother. Alive. And make you watch.’

  ‘You’re fucking evil.’

  ‘Where is the film?’

  After a prolonged silence, as the defence and prosecution argued their cases in his head, Crowley told her. ‘It’s at Mother’s.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It’s in the Den.’

  ‘What in God’s name is “the Den”? It sounds like something at the bottom of a garden.’

  ‘My room.’

  ‘You still have a room at your mother’s house? What sort of a man are you?’

  ‘A stupid one,’ Crowley acknowledged. ‘A bloody stupid one.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s go and pay your mother a visit.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt her.’

  ‘I’ll take her apart bone by bone if you’re lying to me, so be sure to make your brain understand that.’

  ‘But she’ll get suspicious. I’ve already taken Maddie there tonight.’

  ‘Why on earth did you take a prostitute to meet your mother?’

  Crowley was about to repeat that Maddie wasn’t a prostitute, but then thought better of it. ‘I like Mother to think I’m doing okay.’

  ‘By sleeping with whores?’

  ‘She thinks Maddie’s my girlfriend.’

  ‘Is she dumb enough to believe that?’

  Crowley shrugged. In all honesty, Mother hadn’t looked very convinced. But it was the truth. For once, it was the stark naked truth. Connie Sykes and Mother could think what they liked. Maddie wasn’t a prostitute. And she had the hots for him. It was Maddie who had phoned him and suggested spending time together. She was no pay-as-you-go whore. She was the girl of his dreams. Both wet and dry.

  ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Connie said. ‘We’ll drive out to your mother’s and get the film.’

  Crowley nodded slowly.

  ‘You let me do all the talking. Is that clear?’

  ‘But what are you going to say?’

  ‘I’ll tell her I’m a policewoman. I’ll say we have reason to believe that you’ve been handling stolen goods. Then we’ll go up to your room and get the film. Bid your mother good night and come back here.’

  ‘You don’t know her. She’ll ask questions.’

  ‘Then you’d better satisfy her curiosity. Is that clear?’

  It was.

  Connie picked up Maddie’s bag and waved the gun at Crowley. ‘Now move. If you so much as twitch on the way to the car, I’ll shoot you in the spine.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Crowley parked the Mondeo two doors away from his mother’s house. ‘I need a fag.’

  ‘We haven’t got time to facilitate your filthy habit. And remember, I do all the talking.’

  ‘She’ll think it’s fucking well strange if I just stand around and don’t say a word.’

  ‘Exchange pleasantries, or whatever your kind do. Otherwise, only respond if she asks you something specific.’

  ‘Mother’s got a suspicious mind.’

  ‘Then you’d better be at your devious best. At least it should come naturally to you.’

  Agnes Crowley answered the door by calling through the letter-box. ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’

  Connie nudged Crowley in the ribs with the gun.

  ‘It’s me. Frank.’

  ‘What do you want? Don’t tell me you’ve dragged that poor girl all the way back here when she’s not feeling well?’

  ‘I’m not with Maddie. I’m with the police.’

  ‘The police? Whatever for?’

  ‘Let us in, Mother. Please.’

  The door opened to reveal Agnes Crowley wearing a bright pink dressing gown and matching slippers. Her hair was encased in yellow curlers. She looked Connie up and down. ‘You’re dressed funny for a copper.’

  ‘I’m a plain-clothes officer. We don’t wear uniform.’

  ‘I know what “plain-clothes” means. What do you want?’

  ‘Can we come in, Mrs Crowley? It’s important.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what this is about.’

  Connie took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Okay. We believe your son is in possession of stolen goods.’

  ‘Stolen goods?’

  ‘Let us in, Mother. Please.’

  Agnes stepped aside and crossed her arms. ‘I’m getting ready for bed, so you’d better make this quick.’

  Connie slipped the gun into the pocket of her leather jacket and flicked the safety catch on. ‘Thank you. This will only take a few minutes.’

  Agnes closed the front door. ‘So what’s he supposed to have stolen?’

  Connie skirted close to the truth. ‘Films.’

  ‘What films?’

  ‘Does it matter, Mother. They’re just films.’

  ‘Frank’s right. You don’t need to concern yourself with—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Agnes said. ‘Mucky films.’

  ‘You could say that,’ Connie confirmed.

  ‘I always knew you’d land up in trouble again, boy.’

  Frank begged to differ. ‘It’s only a few films, for Christ’s sake. I haven’t stolen the Crown Jewels.’

  ‘What did you promise me after last time?’

  Crowley seemed to take a sudden interest in his shoes. He mumbled something unintelligible.

  Connie’s interest was suddenly piqued. ‘What did you do, Frank?’

  Agnes didn’t give him chance to answer. ‘You lot should know. You nicked him for it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen his record.’

  Agnes looked at her son as if he’d just dropped his trousers and crapped on the carpet. ‘He exposed himself.’

  Connie wasn’t surprised. The filthy swine was capable of anything where sexual depravity was concerned. She wondered if Old Mother Crowley ought to be told of her son’s penchant for spying on women in staff toilets. And men, considering Seb Smith also worked at Sunnyside. A nice little keepsake to take to her grave. ‘Is this true, Frank?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Time’s a great feeler, a voice whispered in Connie’s left ear. A soft cajoling voice. The voice of the Wolf.

  ‘Time doesn’t make it no better to live with,’ Agnes told her son. ‘It’s always there like a dirty stain on the family name.’

  Connie held up a hand. ‘I’m sure we’ve all got something in our past we’re not proud of.’

  Agnes agreed. ‘Yes. Giving birth to him.’

  The Wolf spoke again. If the pervert’s got a record for indecent exposure, it might be useful to gather some DNA evidence from that tin shack he lives in.

  Connie wasn’t sure what the Wolf was getting at. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Don’t follow what?’ Agnes said. ‘Who are you talking to?’

  Connie curled her finger tighter around the trigger. She didn’t care for the way the old lady was looking at her. Perhaps she ought to shoot her and be done with it.

  The Wolf didn’t agree. The last thing you need right now is a trail of bodies. All you need to do is plant Crowley’s DNA on the Heath girl and the whore after you’ve killed them, Sweetcakes. That�
��s the pervert in the frame for both deaths. He’ll be on the police database. Then you force Crowley to commit suicide after writing a letter admitting to his crimes. Bingo. Eyes down, Three Little Piggies for a full house.

  Connie liked that idea. The Wolf was a genius. ‘Yes. Yes, I can see how that might work.’

  Crowley took a step away from Connie. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Connie gawked at him with her good eye. ‘You have the right to remain silent, Frank. I suggest you exercise that right.’

  Agnes scowled at her son. ‘I knew you was up to no good. I said to Ronnie only the other week we ought to bust the padlock off that door.’

  Crowley looked away.

  ‘I’m going to call him. He can come over and sort this out.’

  ‘No, Mother. For fuck’s sake leave him out of this. I don’t—’

  ‘You swear one more time in my house, boy, and I’ll fetch you one across the chops. You ain’t too big to get a clout.’

  Connie slipped the safety catch off the gun. ‘Your son’s right, Mrs Crowley. We don’t want anyone else muddying the waters at this stage.’

  ‘Ronnie will know what to do. He’s a solicitor.’

  ‘No.’ And then a little calmer. ‘This probably won’t even get as far as court, Mrs Crowley.’

  I reckon the old biddy only breast-fed Ronnie. By the time Frank’s turn came around, her titties were all dried up.

  Connie smiled. ‘Come on, Frank. Let’s go and take a look in your room.’

  By the time Crowley had removed the padlock from the door and let them into the Den, Connie’s optimism was wavering. What if Crowley’s mother called her other son? If he was a solicitor, he was probably of sufficient intelligence to blow a hole the size of Birmingham through her cover story.

  Then get a shift on.

  ‘God, this room stinks,’ Connie said. ‘It smells like someone’s died in here.’

  ‘It don’t get aired out.’

  ‘Where’s the film?’

  Crowley pointed at the poster of Marilyn Monroe. ‘Behind there.’

  ‘You really do have a liking for sluts and whores, don’t you?’

  ‘Marilyn’s not a slut.’

  ‘She looks like one.’

  ‘She was murdered. All because she was having an affair with JFK.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn if she was killed for having an affair with the KKK. If you want your precious mother to see another day, you’d better get a shift on.’

  Crowley took down the poster and laid it on the bed. He then used a small silver key to open the cupboard door.

  ‘I want you to empty everything out of that cupboard and put it on the bed. Then go and stand by the window.’

  Crowley took out his stash of DVDs and the money Connie had paid him so far. He put them on the bed and then walked over to the window. ‘Can’t I keep the cash?’

  ‘You don’t need cash where you’re going.’

  ‘You said—’

  Connie peered into the cupboard. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You promised that if I gave you the film, you—’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t kill your mother. And I’m pleased to announce I’m not going to renege on my promise.’

  ‘Okay. Take the cash. We’ll just call it quits.’

  ‘Too late for that, Frank. You’ve already proved yourself to be lower than a snake’s belly.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. There’s got to be at least twenty films here. How long were you doing this for?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘Two years watching people go to the toilet. What in God’s name goes on in that head of yours?’

  ‘They’re not all from the bogs.’

  ‘Where are the others from?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does. Look upon it as a confession. It might help to save your soul.’

  ‘Some are from the residents’ rooms.’

  ‘You’ve been filming the old folk?’

  Crowley nodded.

  ‘Doing what, for Heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Reading. Showering. Going to bed. Stuff like that. Nothing bad.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Nothing bad”, you heinous pervert? What else have you filmed?’

  ‘Just a woman in a mobile home near me.’

  ‘God. Your filth runs deeper than I thought.’

  ‘I never hurt no one.’

  Connie resisted an urge to pistol-whip him. ‘You stole their dignity. That’s second only to rape, in my book.’

  ‘At least I haven’t kidnapped anyone.’

  Connie picked up the wad of cash from the bed and stuffed it in her jacket. She didn’t want to get drawn into a slanging match. ‘Which is the film I’m looking for?’

  ‘It’s marked.’

  ‘Marked what? “Dirty Filthy Bog Watch”? “Tales from the Shit-house”?’

  ‘The Golden Egg.’

  ‘You’re even more disgusting than I imagined. Right, I want you to pick up those films and go downstairs. As far as your mother is concerned, you’re accompanying me to the station. You ask her for a carrier bag to put the discs in and tell her not to worry. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we walk out the front door without another word, right?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Filming people going to the toilet. The mind boggles.

  Connie smiled. Even in moments of great duress, the Wolf still managed to retain a sense of humour. ‘Aye, the mind boggles all right.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Watch him, Sweetcakes, the Wolf said, as Crowley parked in a bay next to his mobile home. He’s more slippery than a sack of snakes.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve been dealing with him since the summer.’

  Crowley switched off the engine. ‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’

  Connie jumped. ‘Shut up, pervert, or so help me God, I’ll kill you right now.’

  Steady, Sweetcakes. If you kill him now, how are you going to plant his DNA on the Heath girl and the whore?

  ‘I’ll get samples before I kill him.’

  But if you plant DNA samples on two corpses that both died AFTER the perpetrator, you’re going to raise enough red flags to rival a military parade in Moscow.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The cops will know when the Heath girl and the whore died, right? What with all their forensic science and stuff?

  ‘I suppose.’

  And they will know, give or take an hour, when Crowley bit the dust, right?

  Connie nodded. Her brain felt a spinning top in the hands of a hyperactive child.

  So ask yourself this: how does a dead man manage to kill two girls? Creep out of his coffin late one night and go on the rampage?

  ‘I’m not thinking straight. I’m under too much pressure at the moment.’

  That’s why I’m here to help you, Sweetcakes. Here’s what we’ll do. Get Crowley and the whore back to Fourwinds with the Heath girl. Then we’ll wait until the time is right to kill them both and stage Crowley’s suicide. Yes?

  ‘Aye.’

  Now go and get your crash helmet. Make sure you take Bog Trotter with you.

  ‘Can’t I just take the car keys off him?’

  No. Just in case he gets any bright ideas about legging it. And make sure he locks the caravan up.

  ‘I’m so tired.’

  I know, Sweetcakes. It’s been a long day. Get Bog Trotter to drive you home. Then you can have a nice long hot soak in the tub. Recharge your batteries.

  By the time they were safely back in the car, Connie felt as if she could sleep for a month. But she had to stay awake. Stay alert. If she took her eye off the ball for even a second, he might defy the laws of physics and spring into action. Destroy her plans. Ruin years and years of planning, preparation and work.

  She sat on the backseat behind Crowley and ordered him to Fourwinds.

 
‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it, you insufferable little man. Unless you’d rather I locked you inside that tin shack of yours and set fire to it?’

  Crowley started the engine. ‘No.’

  ‘Then get going.’

  You’ll need to put him somewhere safe when you get home, Sweetcakes.

  Connie tried to think.

  If you want my advice, lock him in the garage and gag him.

  ‘How am I going to feed him?’

  ‘Feed who?’ Crowley said.

  The Wolf spoke again: Don’t bother. It will only be two weeks, tops. He’s got enough fat reserves to stretch comfortably for a month.

  Connie was inclined to agree. But water was a different matter.

  You can take the gag off now and then and let him have a drop of water. We don’t want him croaking it prematurely. Chances are he’s an alcoholic, so he’s probably dehydrated.

  ‘What shall I do with the whore?’

  ‘Let her go,’ Crowley said.

  Connie jabbed the gun into Crowley’s neck. ‘I’m not talking to you. Keep your pig out of my trough.’

  ‘You just said—’

  Connie felt an overwhelming urge to shoot the bastard. She bit down on her free hand hard enough to draw blood. ‘Do you want a bullet in the head?’

  Crowley fell silent.

  Put the whore in the basement with the Heath girl for now.

  ‘Can’t I just put her in the garage with Crowley?’

  I don’t trust Crowley and the whore one jot. It’s best to keep them apart.

  The Wolf was right. Something didn’t add up about Crowley and the whore. Perhaps a bath and some paracetamol might help her to figure things out better.

  And you need to look through Crowley’s disgusting films.

  ‘Why? He’s marked the one I need’

  You need to get the full measure of what he’s done. It might help when he’s writing his suicide note to ensure he gives a full and frank confession. No pun intended, Sweetcakes.

  The thought of wading through Crowley’s depravity made Connie feel sick to her stomach. How could anyone film elderly residents going about their business in the privacy of their own rooms? How?

  Crowley pulled into the drive at Fourwinds. ‘Please let me have a smoke. I can’t—’

  ‘No. Think of quitting that disgusting habit as part of your rehabilitation. Now, I want you to be honest. Do any of your repulsive films feature my father?’