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

pudding I can smell.’
    Agnes ignored the compliment. ‘Wash your hands.’
    Frank did. The wash basin in the downstairs loo was filthy. It was probably more hygienic to eat with dirty hands. Frank noticed a nasty smear of shit around the rim of the toilet. It all but killed his appetite. He looked out the window on his way back to the kitchen and checked his car. This wasn’t the worst neighbourhood in town, but it had its fair share of brats waiting to let your tyres down or smash a window. It paid to keep an eye on things.
    Agnes dished up an unhealthy dollop of steak and kidney pudding on Frank’s plate, and then added a large splodge of mashed potatoes and some tinned carrots. She topped it off with a jug of gravy. Proper Oxo gravy thickened with Bisto, not that instant crap they sold in the supermarket. Say what you liked about Mother, and Frank often did in the privacy of his own home, but she was a damned fine cook.
    He tucked in and savoured the tastes and textures of real food. So good compared to his usual diet of pizza and microwave meals. Agnes fiddled with her food. She settled on a small piece of carrot which she forked into her mouth and chewed methodically.
    Frank noticed that her clothes were hanging off her; they looked like rags on a corpse. ‘How are you keeping, Mother?’
    ‘What do you care?’
    Frank found a piece of gristle in his mouth. He pretended to cough and spat it into his hand. ‘You know I care.’
    ‘You care about coming here and feeding your face once a week. I know that much.’
    Frank dropped the gristle on the floor. ‘That’s not true.’
    ‘Ronnie comes round every weekend. And some nights when he ain’t too busy at work.’
    Busy ripping people off , Frank thought. ‘That’s nice of him.’
    ‘I wish you were more like him. Had a normal life. A good woman. Settled down.’
    Frank ignored her. He ate his dinner and tried not to rise to the bait. His mother seemed to think that being a solicitor made Ronnie some kind of hero. A man of the people. As far as Frank was concerned, solicitors just made money off other people’s bad luck and misery. ‘I’m happy enough.’
    ‘He’s got a nice house, a good job and a lovely wife.’
    Pretentious arsehole , Frank thought. And as for his stupid wife, she looks more plastic than a carrier bag.
    ‘Holidays abroad.’
    ‘I don’t like foreign countries – full of foreigners,’ Frank joked.
    Agnes didn’t laugh. ‘That’s your trouble, boy: no ambition. You’ve been like that since you learned to wipe your own backside.’
    Frank thought about the downstairs loo. At least I can still remember how to wipe my own backside. ‘I’m happy enough. I’ve got my job. I’ve got my home.’
    Agnes snorted. A bogey flew from her nose and landed in her half-eaten dinner. ‘You call that tin-shack a home?’
    Frank almost gagged. He prayed with all his heart she didn’t fork the disgusting thing into her mouth. He felt like reminding his mother that it was her idea to ship him out to the mobile home in the first place. Hers and that sugar-coated brother of his.
    ‘You need a woman.’
    Frank almost told her he had one. But that would only raise questions that he didn’t care to answer. ‘I manage.’
    ‘Scrape by.’
    Frank pushed his plate away. The fallen bogey had chased his appetite out of the building. ‘I’m stuffed.’
    ‘You won’t be wanting pudding, then?’
    ‘Can I take it home with me?’
    Agnes didn’t look impressed. ‘And ruin it by heating it up in that damned microwave?’
    ‘The microwave won’t ruin it.’
    She snorted again. Thankfully, this time, bogey-free. ‘All this modern rubbish ain’t done nothing but put people in a hurry.’
    Frank failed to see the logic, but she was right to a point; he was in a hurry; to get his latest wedge of money secreted upstairs in the Den. ‘People are just busier these days.’
    ‘Busy, my eye – impatient, more like. Do you want a cup of