FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) (20 page)

‘So you’re saying it’s true?’

‘Damn you, George!’ he snarled. ‘Listen to me. You are never to mention that again, you hear? So help me God, George, if you don’t keep that trap of yours shut I’ll have it shut for you! What happened to Bruce Tredwin happened a long, long time ago, and it doesn’t matter now that he’s dead and gone, because there’s nothing can be done about it.’ He rose stiffly to his feet. Towered above George. ‘You’ll never mention any of this ever again, you hear?’ He sucked in a breath.  ‘
You hear
?’ he said forcefully. George nodded meekly. ‘And no more about stupid bank statements, or any other of your wild imaginings. Christ, George, it’s like when you were a kid. You had an imagination as wide as the Pacific and just as deep. You’ve never changed, have you?’

To hear his Uncle
Gary say such things ripped open his insides and spilled them out on the bank. He didn’t say another word as the man strode purposefully away and was lost to sight amongst the tall, gently nodding grasses. For a while George listened to the sounds of the stream flopping over pebbles and rocks and curling into small whirlpools beneath the shelving mud banks.

He rose slowly, awkwardly, and brushed dirt from his trousers.
The light was fading as evening set in, the clouds burnished pink and gold from the low-lying sun.

If they thought he was giving up that easily, they had another think coming
. His jaw set hard and he decided he’d head that very evening for Adam Tredwin’s garden centre. He’d confront Adam with the fact that his father had been sending him money. And he’d confront him over his supposedly dead sister. Who is the woman holed up in your parents’ old place? He imagined the look on the man’s face when he asked it.

He walked back to the village, disconsolate, his footsteps heavy, his shoes scuffing up the dust from the sun-baked lane.
His phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number and was on the verge of ignoring it. But with a sigh he hit receive.

‘Mr Lee?’ said a tentative voice he half-recognised.

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said flatly. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s
Patricia Talbot. William Talbot’s wife – the hypnotist. You called to see us.’

‘Oh!’ he said, rather surprised.

‘I take it you still want the Sylvia Tredwin tapes.’

‘Why, yes, that would be great…’ he said.

‘Three hundred pounds, as agreed?’ She sounded nervously quiet, as if her husband was in close proximity.

‘Sure. Do you have them?’

‘I’ve found them out. I’ve made copies and posted them to you yesterday. You should get them in the next day or so. I’ve included my address. Send a cheque in a letter addressed solely to me. William doesn’t know about any of this and I don’t want him to find out. But we need the money badly. We can’t meet up again so I’m trusting you to send me the money.’

‘That’s no problem,’ he said.

‘I will deny ever sending the tapes to you, so please, once you have them don’t bother us again,’ she said. ‘He’d kill me if he found out. We’re heading for Canada soon, so as soon as you can send us the money…’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Good luck in
Canada.’

She hung up without saying another word.

He sighed. He didn’t know how he should feel. The tapes might be useless. They might hold vital clues.

Just think of the novel
, said Cameron.

It went beyond writing the novel a long time ago, he thought.

What do you mean? This would make a brilliant book
, said Cameron.
You’re not backing out, are you?

‘Give it a rest, Cameron,’ he said.
‘You’ve caused me enough trouble already.’

As George Lee entered the main street he heard a meaty car exhaust behind him. He was surprised to see Brendan Mollett’s large powder-blue Ford Classic Consul pulling up beside him, the chrome and polished paintwork gleaming in the evening sunlight, the exhaust pumping out clouds of mat
ching blue fumes. Brendan leant across and wound the window down.

‘Hi, George. You doing OK?’ he asked breezily.

George nodded. ‘This is a rare thing, isn’t it? Taking the Consul out for a spin.’

‘Nice dry day, lovely evening, fancied a ride out in the country. I saw you and thought you might like to come along for the ride. You always used to like the old girl.’

True enough. George had been taken rides by Brendan when he was young, and was even allowed to sit in the driver’s seat and mess with the gear stick when he’d turned fifteen. He loved the smell of the light-blue vinyl seating and door cards, the shiny, chrome-decked dash. Always said he’d own one himself, one day, when he made enough money. Never turned out that way.

‘I dunno, Brendan,’ he said. ‘I’m going somewhere.’

‘Ah, come on, George. For old time’s sake…’

George relented and opened the large door, easing himself into the passenger seat. ‘I was going to the Tredwin garden centre.’

‘OK,’ said Brendan, ‘we’ll have a little spin around the lanes and then I’ll drop you off.’

He hit the gas and the larg
e car rolled away down the street, taking a detour down a smaller country road. The car began to climb the steep hills surrounding Petheram. ‘Was the stuff I gave you on the search parties any good?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ lied George. ‘Anything is welcome that helps shed light on what happened.’ He sat in silence for a while, watching the hedgerows shoot by in a blur, the low sun flashing through gaps in the foliage like the flashbulbs of an army of eager photographers.
‘Was there any logic behind the apportioning of people to certain search grids, Brendan? I’m assuming there was.’

‘Oh yes, most definitely. We were organised. Those who knew the lie of any particular stretch of land got that section.’

‘So why did Christian Phelps get the land beyond Langland’s Wood?’

‘His father owned a few fields
there back then, as well as running the pub. A lot of people did that, holding down two jobs, in order to make ends meet. He tried arable, investing in barns, machinery, grain silo, that kind of thing. It didn’t work out for him and he had to sell it all. But Christian was given the task of searching that area because he knew it well, having spent a good deal of his spare time working the land up there on behalf of his father. He hated farming.’ He chuckled at the thought.

‘Can we see it?’

Brendan raised a brow. ‘Sure, but there’s not much left of what used to be there. It’s gone back to being used for sheep and cattle nowadays. We can take a next left and skirt the top of the hill. Why’d you want to go there?’

‘I don’t rightly know, Brendan. It’s somewhere to go, I guess. Somewhere to head for.’

‘Me, I like just putting my foot down and seeing where the road takes me,’ Brendan smiled.

They pulled up beside a fence, high on the hills overlooking Petheram and its environs. There was a patchwork of large fields extending out before them. Langland’s Wood formed a clear wall of green to their left, bordering a field in which George could make out the rusted remains of a large metal
grain silo, a dilapidated old barn and a few outbuildings. There were sheep grazing nearby.

‘That’s it,’
said Brendan. ‘Christian took this entire section to search, ranging from the tree line there to those fields and hedgerows way over there.’ He gestured animatedly with his hand. ‘But of course, Sylvia wasn’t found here. Flinder’s Field is on the other side of Langland’s Wood, a good half mile away.’

George studied the landscape closely. Something was nagging at him but he didn’t know exactly what it was. ‘Can you take me to the garden centre now, please, Brendan, before it gets too late?’
Brendan nodded and they went back to the car. ‘I always admired your Ford,’ George said as the car made its snaking return journey down the hill towards Petheram. ‘She’s a beauty.’

‘Yeah, my pride and joy,’ beamed Brendan, pleased with the compliment. ‘My wife said I loved it more than
I loved her, but that’s nonsense, of course. It came a close second, mind!’ He smiled. ‘I always had a hankering for those American gas-guzzlers. I loved everything American back then. The country was just so big, brash, modern and beautiful. The music, the movies...’ He gave a satisfied sigh. ‘My 1962 Ford Classic Consul was the nearest I could come to owning an American motor, all chrome and rear fins. It turns heads, always has done.’

‘Where’d you get her from?’ George asked idly.

‘Your Uncle Gary sold it to me back in the mid-1980s. He knew I was after something like this and kept his eyes peeled. Mind you, I didn’t like her at first, because she had this all-over black paint job. Looked like a bloody hearse…’

‘It was black?’ said George.

‘Black as night. Looked faintly governmental when I got her, but your uncle had her re-sprayed in a powder-blue. It’s surprising what a difference that makes.’

George could not help himself. His thou
ghts were drawn back to what William Talbot had said about the death of his father, Arthur Talbot; about the mugging and the woman who saw a large black American car nearby.

Do
you know where he got the car from?’ he asked.

‘It’s a long time ago now, I can’t
quite remember. I think it used to be owned by a guy from Gloucester.’

George remained in thought all the way to Adam Tredwin’s garden centre. He thanked Brendan for the ride and said goodnight, still musing over what he’d been told. Could Brendan’s Ford Classic Consul have been the
same black car spotted in Swindon by that woman who discovered Arthur Talbot’s body? What was it – thirty-odd miles between Gloucester and Swindon?

Christ, you’re letting it run away with you tonight, he thought, shaking his head and making his way through the garden centre’s yard.
How could there possibly be a connection?

The sun was only just hanging onto a
slender ledge of cloud, ready at any moment to release its grasp and plunge the world into night. The warm smells of the evening, of flowers in bloom, were intoxicating. In the far distance he heard tractors working late in the fields, their drones like a cloud of flies around his head.

The place was in darkness, no lights burning. On the main door there was a notice that had been pinned up. CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Adam’s van, however, with its paint-blistered bonnet, was still standing in the yard. Frowning, George went round the back, knocked at the door to the living qua
rters, but got no reply. He peered through the windows but could not see anyone. He figured Adam was round at his parents’ house. That was good; he’d catch them both in – Adam and the woman he claimed to be his sister. A long-dead sister, killed by a mother Adam said was still very much alive, when in truth she was long-dead, too.

In the growing dusk he walked the fair distance to the old Tredwin house, the lane that led up to it now almost in complete darkness with the shade of the heavy, unbroken tree canopy overhead. The Tredwin place was also in darkness.

No, there was a tiny light burning, he could just about see it through a chink in the old curtains. Someone was home. He stole up the garden path, tried to look through the front windows. The light came from a solitary candle burning on a cabinet in the living room.

A candle? Was there no electricity?

And still there was no sign of either Adam or his supposed sister. Carefully, trying not to make a sound, he tried the handle of the front door. The door was locked. Maybe he should just knock. Except something was warning him against it. A hunch, maybe. So he crept round the back of the house, making sure he didn’t trip over anything in the encroaching dark and give his presence away. Something very weird was going on here, that’s for sure.

The back door was unlocked, so he pushed it open gently.
The kitchen was in complete darkness.

‘Adam?’ he ventured, now afraid that if he were found he’d have some serious explaining to do as to why he was stealing through the house.

There was little sign of life being lived in the old house. No evidence of cooking, no implements or pots and pans left out, nothing in the sink waiting to be washed. It smelled damp and unlived-in. He opened the fridge. No light came on, and it was empty. He saw the faint glow of the candlelight through the door that led out of the kitchen, lighting up the passageway ever so slightly. And then the light went out.

Someone had snuffed the candle.

‘Adam?’ he said again. ‘It’s me, George. I need to speak with you…’

He crept slowly towards the passage beyond the kitchen. He heard a light shuffling sound from the living room, cloth rubbing against cloth, nothing more, but an indication that someone was in there. He made his way to the living-room door, placed a hand on the handle and was about to push it open when someone yanked the door wide and attempted to barge past him.

An elbow or something caught him in the ribs, momentarily winding him as the figure darted towards the rear door. But in a flash he was after the shadow, realising it was a woman – the same he’d seen run away from him before. He caught up with her at the kitchen door, grabbing hold of her skinny bare arm. She retaliated, slashing out with her nails and catching him on the cheek. But he didn’t let go. She tried to pull away, and he avoided the many blows she attempted to rain on him, until he held her from behind, pinning her arms down.

‘I don’t want to hurt you!’ he said. ‘Calm down! Calm down!’

After a little while, she stopped struggling, her breathing heavy, her head hung low. ‘Let me go,’ she said.

‘If you promise not to go running away again.’

‘Are you with the police?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you expecting them?’ He released her, but went to the back door and closed it, standing with his back against it. ‘I take it this is the only route out, given that it always seems to be the one that’s unlocked.’

‘Who are you?’ she said.

In the gloom he could just about make out her face – youngish, about his age or younger, long dark hair that was in need of a good brush. She looked painfully thin.

‘Who am I? Who are you, more like?’ He watched her carefully, as she looked like a cornered feral cat seeking a way out, about to bolt at any moment. He saw her glance at the kitchen drawer, maybe thinking about getting a knife. She seemed to think better of it and relaxed a little. ‘You’re not Adam’s sister, then?’

‘Who is Adam?’ she said.

‘Adam Tredwin. This house used to belong to his parents. So I take it you’re not Eva after all.’

‘I don’t know Adam Tredwin or his sister. Are you going to let me go? I promise never to come back again.’ She looked over her shoulder, thinking she’d heard a noise. She stiffened. ‘Are you alone?’ she asked nervously.

‘I’m alone,’ he said. ‘So who are you if you’re not with Adam?’

‘I
’m squatting here, that’s all. Just staying a week or so before I move on and find something else. It’s not like anyone’s living here, is it? I’ve done no harm. I haven’t damaged anything. Let me go.’

‘A squatter?’ he said, raising his brows. ‘So Adam has no idea you’re staying here?’

‘You were the one who came the other day, aren’t you?’ she ventured.

‘And you ran away.
So what are you running away from?’

She scowled. ‘No business of yours. Are you going to report me to the police?’

‘Should I?’

‘Most people round here would
.’

‘I’m not most people,’ he said. ‘So you’ve been living here without water and electricity? What have you been living on? By the looks of you it hasn’t been much.’

‘I get by. It’s warm. It’s shelter. Somewhere to sleep.’

‘It was you I saw at my father’s funeral,’ he said. ‘By the wall.’

‘I saw a funeral, yeah,’ she admitted. ‘I hate funerals…’

‘You and me both,’ he said. ‘Look, take it easy, I’m not going to hurt you or report you to the police. You can stay here, for all I care, for as long as you can get away with it.’

Her eyes betrayed the fact she was looking for a catch. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘George. George Lee. And yours?’

‘Amy.’

‘Does Amy have a second name?’

‘Amy does, but she’s not sharing it with you.’

He liked her. Feisty, even when cornered. ‘Has anyone ever come to the house while you’ve been here?’

‘Apart from you? Yeah, a guy. He’s been a few times, but every time he just stands on the path looking and never comes inside the house.’

‘That will be Adam,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I saw him do that when I came the other day. So he’s never once been inside?’

‘Not while I’ve been here.’