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