Frank Bowen Conspiracy Thriller Series

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Two months earlier

A strong wind swept the rain across the dual carriageway and through the valley where Frank Bowen had killed time in his teens. There would soon be dozens of red brick houses built and he wanted to hold and embed that place in his memory before it changed forever. There was something comforting to him about the trash and old car tyres lying abandoned on the unused road.

“Here, boy!” Frank whistled to Scotty, who was sniffing around the ground and ignoring him, as he followed a scent trail. He was Jodie’s pet, but walking him made for a great excuse to get away from the flat.

Thick droplets of rain began to build and then within seconds, it came down as a torrent. A nearby derelict car garage offered shelter and Frank ran inside. The windows were now broken black holes that had not seen occupants for over a decade.

Further up the hill, the last solitary houses stood on the rain-washed road set against the grey shapes of two North London tower blocks. He had heard the developers were waiting for the owners to either move or die, so they could get on with their big project.

He considered going to look at the old house where he’d grown up with his parents before the accident, but the rain was coming down harder and it was getting late.

Scotty, bored with being soaked, finally scurried over to join Frank in the dry and shook himself off, spraying his trousers.

“Thanks for that,” Frank sighed. As the terrier investigated the inner corners of the garage, Frank stared out at the relentless downpour. The rain always had a therapeutic effect on him, almost like a comfort blanket for the soul.

Scotty came trotting back and looked up at Frank in anticipation. “Want to go home now?” The dog merely looked up at Frank, his tail wagging excitedly.

“Great. Let’s get out of here.”

***

The following morning the skies remained threatening as Frank jogged along the docks past the endless offices and suits making their way to work. His dark hair and heavy set appearance made him look older than his twenty-six years. A fact not lost on him when he was younger and looking to get served in the pubs. An old man in combats and a tweed jacket tossed pieces of bread to a group of swans in the water. They rushed at the surprise snacks, beaks pecking gratefully.

A sudden screeching noise pierced the peaceful calm. A sickening crash followed by painful screaming came from the main road that ran parallel to the docks. Frank slowed his jog down to a walk and moved towards the commotion. A man in his mid-twenties was lying on the cobbled street, his body contorted– along with his mountain bike – under a car. Several pedestrians stopped and gawped; some continued to walk by.

“Quick! Somebody! Get an ambulance!”

A woman had already jumped out of the driver’s seat, her hands on her head as she took in the scene in front of her.

“Oh Jesus, I didn’t see…”

A burly man in a grey suit stood transfixed as dark blood soaked the dusty, cobbled road. Frank knelt over the man, trying to comfort him, impossible though it was—his face white and contorted, shrill screams and moans, short quick gasps for breath, eyes wide with fear. Eyes that were transfixed onto Frank’s.

“It’s ok, mate … what’s your name? It’s ok. An ambulance will be here soon.” Frank turned to the crowd: “Has someone called a bloody ambulance?” He looked back at the man on the ground, eyes frozen, staring skywards.

“On its way!” shouted a voice. The driver of the car was weeping and being comforted by another cyclist. After an agonising wait, the ambulance eventually pulled up, quickly followed by other emergency services. A paramedic rushed over and immediately felt his pulse and for any sign of a heartbeat, but the young man’s life was already over.

***

Frank put down the keys on the kitchen bar and glanced at a pile of letters on the sideboard.

Jodie came in with a quizzical look from the living room where a home decoration programme blared out, exclaiming the delights of living room renovation.

“Hi, Frank. There’s some post for you.”

“Yeah I saw, thanks,” he said, ignoring the letters. “How was your day?”

“Oh you know, the usual. The excitement never starts,” she smiled at him thinly. “So, you’re home early?”

“Yeah. I skipped work after what I saw going in. Some poor guy got killed. A cyclist was hit by a car.”

Jodie’s face turned to shock.

“Oh God!”

“It was nasty, horrible. He really suffered. I don’t think he was much older than me.”

Jodie rubbed Frank’s arm in a rare show of affection. They embraced, her hands moving around him tentatively, as she patted his back. Frank bristled. She had been doing that a lot lately. He recently read in a body language book that it was a subconscious sign the person was not entirely comfortable with what they were doing.

“Makes you think doesn’t it?” he whispered.

She pulled away from him and tilted her head. “About what?”

Frank moved to the kitchen bar and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Life … and its rich tapestry. It’s so bloody short.”

Jodie rolled her eyes.

“How many times have we had this conversation? I know you lost your parents, Frank, and then your grandad. I know how hard it’s been for you. I just don’t know what to say anymore.”

“What? I didn’t say anything about my parents or grandad.”

“But that’s what you meant! And what about me? What about us and a family?”

“What about..? Jodie, I’ve just seen a guy, lying in his own blood, die in front of me!”

The dog barked and disappeared into the living room.

“Don’t shout in front of Scotty.”

Frank shook his head while Jodie glared at him and snatched her keys off the kitchen bar.

“I’m taking him for a walk. Away from you.” The door slammed.

The death of Frank’s grandfather, Larry Bowen, a few months earlier had put a hold on the bickering, but now a return to past form seemed to be back on the agenda.

Frank took a bite from the apple and flicked through the letters. He didn’t recognise one as a bill and opened it. It was from his grandfather’s solicitor, entitled ‘Inheritance’.

He read the words slowly. It told him how he had inherited five thousand pounds from his grandfather’s estate. There was just the matter of signing a few forms at his convenience.

Five grand. It was a nice rounded amount, not life-changing, but handy nevertheless. He had expected to receive something but had no idea how much it was going to be. Larry Bowen had always scrimped and saved, despite not earning a great deal.

Frank did a quick calculation. He had around three or four thousand pounds of debt to pay off from the inheritance, which, on any other day would have irritated him. Today, however, he had seen a young man die and that experience had put all into perspective.

He carefully folded up the letter, went to the bedroom and placed it inside a book that lay on his bedside cabinet and then sat on the bed, staring at the wall.

The eyes of the young cyclist stared back at him as his life ebbed away. Frank supposed that at least someone had been there to comfort him at the end. Snuffed out, just like that. Going to work one minute and then…bang! Game over. It was life, but it was no easier to comprehend.

Then a thought came to him and he went to the wardrobe and took out a cardboard box. Inside was an assortment of his grandad’s possessions, including letters, photographs, a watch and a leather-bound book. Frank hadn’t really looked through all this stuff before and browsed through the items.

The images offered a very brief snapshot of his grandfather’s life. Larry as a young man in the boxing gym where he had been a keen fighter for a few years; Larry and his late wife, taken in the 1970s; Larry standing tall, with a group of other men, all proudly posing in their British army uniforms, smiling broadly at the camera—handwritten on the back in faded blue ink, read: 2nd Infantry Division June 1945.

Then Frank noticed one of his parents that he hadn’t seen before: young, happy, together. Frank found himself wondering what it would have been like if they had still been alive. Would he have taken them on a trip somewhere as they had aged? Visits on Sundays for a slap up roast, maybe? Helping his mum with the parsnips that she always forgot to do, even though they were his favourite … listening to Dad moan about his beloved West Ham United. Yes, he would have done all that. No doubt about it, he would have been there for them.

Frank realised he was tightly gripping the photograph, tears escaping his eyes. He was recycling memories again, memories that didn’t even exist. “What an i***t you are, Frank,” he whispered out loud. He could not remember feeling more alone.