The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) by Mark Tilbury Page A
Authors: Mark Tilbury
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talking about?’
Frank drew on the patience of a thousand clipped ears from his mother. ‘Asserts. Your house for starters.’
The Target laughed. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to sell my house, do you?’
Frank did. And he was in no mood to play games. ‘Yep. And you will. Unless you want your grubby little secret going public.’
The Target was silent for long enough to worry Frank. ‘Are you still there?’
‘It will take a lot more than a month to sell my house.’
Frank’s thoughts waded through a Special Brew bog. ‘Liar.’
‘I’m not lying. It’ll take months to find a buyer. Then there are surveys, searches and legalities.’
‘Don’t start wrapping things up in fancy words. You might think I’m stupid, but I ain’t.’
‘You’re a filthy little pervert. I know that.’
‘I don’t care what you call me. You’ve got a month.’
‘I’ll give you another ten thousand. Final offer.’
Frank laughed and almost wheezed himself into a hernia. ‘You’ve got a sense of humour; I’ll give you that much. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you sign the house over to me.’
‘Do you seriously think I’m going to walk into a solicitor’s office and sign my house over to you?’
For the first time in his life, Frank wished he had a better relationship with his brother. Ronnie would be well buffed up on legal matters. ‘You will if you know what’s good for you.’
The Target went quiet. And then: ‘And you expect me to trust you?’
‘You haven’t got a lot of choice.’
‘If you want my house, you’ll have to hand over the evidence first.’
Frank resorted to a cliché he’d once heard in a film. ‘My word is my bond.’
‘Your word isn’t worth a turd.’
‘It’s worth a lot more than you think. Especially in the wrong ear,’ Frank said, delighted to be matching the Target cheap shot for cheap shot. He took another slug of Special Brew and belched down the phone. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
Not so high and mighty now, are you? ‘When shall we do it?’
‘I need time to think.’
Frank lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘What’s to think about? You give me your house and you’re free to do whatever you want.’
‘And where am I supposed to live?’
‘You can have my mobile home. Call it a straight swap, if you like.’
‘Do you really think I ever want to set foot in that shit-hole?’
‘I’m sure you’ll adapt.’
The Target put down the phone.
Frank tried several times to call back, but the Target wasn’t picking up. The phone kept going straight to answerphone. He thought about leaving a message, but decided he might say something he would later regret in court. It wouldn’t do him any favours to start ranting and raving down the phone.
He finished his cigarette and dropped the butt into an empty beer can. He threw the phone on the table. The Target could go to hell. He was in the driving seat, and all roads led to Brighton. Or Margate. Or wherever he could find a guesthouse fit for purpose.
Paranoia whispered bad omens in Frank’s ear. What if the Target pays Mother a visit?
‘No way. Not going to happen.’
It would only take a pair of bolt croppers to break the lock on the bedroom door.
‘The Target doesn’t know where Mother lives.’
Easy enough to find out, Frankie-boy.
‘Mother wouldn’t let anyone into the house. Not if she didn’t know them.’
Easy as ABC to trick an old woman.
‘Not this one. She’s still sharp as a tack.’
I wouldn’t be too surprised if she tried to take a peek in the Den herself.
Frank felt on more solid ground. ‘She wouldn’t get in there.’
What if she gets Brother Ronnie to force open the door?
The thought of the Golden Egg in the hands of the Golden Boy was almost enough to make Frank risk a lengthy driving ban by driving straight to Mother’s house and retrieving his booty.
Let’s be frank, Frank. You haven’t thought this thing through properly.
Frank stared
Frank drew on the patience of a thousand clipped ears from his mother. ‘Asserts. Your house for starters.’
The Target laughed. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to sell my house, do you?’
Frank did. And he was in no mood to play games. ‘Yep. And you will. Unless you want your grubby little secret going public.’
The Target was silent for long enough to worry Frank. ‘Are you still there?’
‘It will take a lot more than a month to sell my house.’
Frank’s thoughts waded through a Special Brew bog. ‘Liar.’
‘I’m not lying. It’ll take months to find a buyer. Then there are surveys, searches and legalities.’
‘Don’t start wrapping things up in fancy words. You might think I’m stupid, but I ain’t.’
‘You’re a filthy little pervert. I know that.’
‘I don’t care what you call me. You’ve got a month.’
‘I’ll give you another ten thousand. Final offer.’
Frank laughed and almost wheezed himself into a hernia. ‘You’ve got a sense of humour; I’ll give you that much. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you sign the house over to me.’
‘Do you seriously think I’m going to walk into a solicitor’s office and sign my house over to you?’
For the first time in his life, Frank wished he had a better relationship with his brother. Ronnie would be well buffed up on legal matters. ‘You will if you know what’s good for you.’
The Target went quiet. And then: ‘And you expect me to trust you?’
‘You haven’t got a lot of choice.’
‘If you want my house, you’ll have to hand over the evidence first.’
Frank resorted to a cliché he’d once heard in a film. ‘My word is my bond.’
‘Your word isn’t worth a turd.’
‘It’s worth a lot more than you think. Especially in the wrong ear,’ Frank said, delighted to be matching the Target cheap shot for cheap shot. He took another slug of Special Brew and belched down the phone. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
Not so high and mighty now, are you? ‘When shall we do it?’
‘I need time to think.’
Frank lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘What’s to think about? You give me your house and you’re free to do whatever you want.’
‘And where am I supposed to live?’
‘You can have my mobile home. Call it a straight swap, if you like.’
‘Do you really think I ever want to set foot in that shit-hole?’
‘I’m sure you’ll adapt.’
The Target put down the phone.
Frank tried several times to call back, but the Target wasn’t picking up. The phone kept going straight to answerphone. He thought about leaving a message, but decided he might say something he would later regret in court. It wouldn’t do him any favours to start ranting and raving down the phone.
He finished his cigarette and dropped the butt into an empty beer can. He threw the phone on the table. The Target could go to hell. He was in the driving seat, and all roads led to Brighton. Or Margate. Or wherever he could find a guesthouse fit for purpose.
Paranoia whispered bad omens in Frank’s ear. What if the Target pays Mother a visit?
‘No way. Not going to happen.’
It would only take a pair of bolt croppers to break the lock on the bedroom door.
‘The Target doesn’t know where Mother lives.’
Easy enough to find out, Frankie-boy.
‘Mother wouldn’t let anyone into the house. Not if she didn’t know them.’
Easy as ABC to trick an old woman.
‘Not this one. She’s still sharp as a tack.’
I wouldn’t be too surprised if she tried to take a peek in the Den herself.
Frank felt on more solid ground. ‘She wouldn’t get in there.’
What if she gets Brother Ronnie to force open the door?
The thought of the Golden Egg in the hands of the Golden Boy was almost enough to make Frank risk a lengthy driving ban by driving straight to Mother’s house and retrieving his booty.
Let’s be frank, Frank. You haven’t thought this thing through properly.
Frank stared
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