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

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘No, not home, here in Petheram. She’s at the old Tredwin place right now.’ He wished he’d not said anything now. It was foolish of him and he was just getting himself deeper into it the more he opened his big fat mouth.

  ‘She lives with Adam and his sister?’ asked Robert, his brows lowering. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Have you seen the place?’ said Gary. ‘Nobody lives there if you ask me, let alone George’s new girlfriend.’

  ‘Do you doubt me?’ His Uncle Gary didn’t reply. ‘Look, give it a rest,’ George stammered.

  ‘So who exactly is she, George, this new woman of yours?’ asked his Uncle Robert.

  ‘None of your business, uncle,’ George said. He noticed how his uncle’s face had been burnt above the left cheek, not much but enough to look mighty painful.

  ‘Is she local?’ said Amelia.

  ‘Like I said, it’s no business of yours.’ He scrabbled around in a cupboard to find a cereal bowl. Gave up and slammed the door shut. ‘Look, what’s going on here?’

  ‘Is she real, George?’ his mother said quietly.

  George blinked. Had he heard her correctly? ‘What do you take me for? Of course she’s real! I wouldn’t make something like that up!’

  ‘No?’ said Robert. ‘That’s not quite true, is it? It’s something you used to do a lot of. It’s always been hard to determine what’s real and what’s not real, George, when it comes to you.’

  ‘That’s so fucking cruel!’ he burst. ‘I was a kid!’

  ‘Language, George,’ his mother admonished.

  ‘We think you ought to go and see a doctor again,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Screw you! Have you heard yourself? I ain’t going to see any doctor. I’m perfectly fine. It’s you lot I’m getting worried about. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll find out, trust me.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on, George,’ Gary said, rising from the table and reaching out a hand to put on George’s arm. George pulled sharply away. ‘We just need to have a talk, about your health. We know how stressful it’s been these last few months, if not years, for you. The divorce, your father’s death…’

  ‘My health? There’s nothing wrong with me, damn you!’

  Gary held out a piece of paper. It had been ripped at some point and stuck back together with tape. ‘This is the so-called bank statement you shoved in front of your mother, claiming your father was sending money to Adam Tredwin.’ He watched as George took it and stared at it uncomprehendingly. ‘See, it’s not a statement at all. It’s a utility bill, nothing more.’

  George, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open, said, ‘That’s not what I showed her. I showed her a bank statement. She got upset and tore it up. You saw it Amelia.’

  ‘I didn’t see a bank statement, George. I only saw a piece of paper you claimed to be one. When mother taped it back together it turned out to be a bill.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ George said, his heart beginning to thump.

  Gary shook his head solemnly. ‘Sorry, George, that’s the paper that your mother was given. You imagined it to be a statement. Of course your mother got upset – you’re making all sorts of fanciful assertions at a time when she’s so fragile – your dad has just died and been buried, George. She can hardly hold it together because of that, let alone deal with a son that is imagining things.’

  George threw the paper to the ground. ‘I know what I saw! There are more statements, I can get them and prove it.’

  ‘You mean inside this?’ Robert produced the large envelope George had had in his room. ‘We’ve had a look, George, and they are more of the same, just old bills. You know how your dad was for keeping such things.’

  ‘That’s not true! I know what I found. They’ve been exchanged. And the policy that matured, where did the money go?’

  Robert said, ‘Gary went up into the loft and found the policy. It was awaiting payment into a designated account, that’s all. Your father didn’t have time to get around to sorting it out before he died. It’s all sorted now.’

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ George blurted, feeling his defences being breached, his composure starting to shrivel away like ice under hot water. ‘He had connections with Sylvia Tredwin – Amelia said so last night. She said she thought dad was having an affair with him.’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge,’ said Gary quickly. ‘A man’s temporary loss of self-restraint, but the main thing is that he stayed with your mother, till the end.’

  ‘But that would explain why dad ran Bruce Tredwin over and killed him. He wanted to be with Sylvia.’

  Robert sighed. ‘There you go again, George, letting your imagination run away with you. Gary changed the car’s wing because it was corroded. There was nothing more sinister going on than that. Isn’t that right, Gary?’

  Gary nodded. ‘That’s right. It was corrosion. Bruce was killed by a hit-and-run person from outside the village. The police said as much.’

  ‘Oh yeah – and who can believe you?’ George said, thrusting out an accusatory finger. ‘What’s your connection with the death of Arthur Talbot?’

  Gary Cowper looked forlornly at his brother, sighing heavily.

  ‘Who on earth is Arthur Talbot?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Gary knows,’ said George. ‘Brendan Mollett’s Ford Classic Consul – it was black before you sold it to him, huh?’ he put forward to his Uncle Gary.

  ‘Sure it was. So what?’ said Gary, shrugging helplessly.

  ‘A big black American car was seen by a witness in the vicinity of Talbot’s body.’

  ‘What is he going on about?’ said Gary, looking at everyone sat around the table in turn. He appeared genuinely quite troubled. ‘George, who the fuck is Arthur Talbot? What body?’ Gary threw his hands up in the air. ‘God, George, do you know how much you’re upsetting everyone? We all love you, we all care for you, and we’re all thinking of how best we can help you. But you keep piling fiction upon fiction, till we don’t know what’s real anymore. And neither do you. George, we want you to see a doctor, get some help.’

  ‘I don’t need help!’

  ‘But you do, George,’ said his mother, tears in her eyes. ‘Please, for my sake if not for your own. I can’t take you acting like this, not so soon after your father’s death. Please, George!’

  Feeling like a helpless, cornered rat, his nerves in tatters, George dashed by them and went upstairs to his bedroom. He slammed the door closed and locked it, leaning on it and panting heavily.

  Was it all true? Was he imagining it? Everything?

  He sat on the edge of his bed, his head cradled in his hands, and his body rocked back and forth. Was Amy imaginary, too? No, she couldn’t be. She just couldn’t be!

  Wait, he thought, the tapes!

  He went to his coat, and gratefully laid his hands on the two tape-cassettes. Relieved at their solidity, he unlocked the bedroom door. Standing out on the landing he heard the low chatter of concerned voices reaching him from the kitchen below. Planning what to do with him next, no doubt, he thought darkly. He crept across the landing to the stairs to the loft, and climbed them, once more entering his father’s private den. It was obvious that someone else had been up here, sorting through the boxes and files, because a great many of them were missing now compared to how he’d left them.

  He soon found out the hi-fi, though, and placed it on his father’s desk, locating a socket in which to plug it in. Pressing the power button, sensing some satisfaction as the amber lights lit up, he took one of the tape-cassettes out of its box and slid it into the drop-down compartment. He pressed play and listened intently as the tape spooled over the heads, a quiet hiss issuing from the speakers.

  Nothing. Not a sound. He frowned, taking out the cassette and peering at it. It should be playing now. Fretfully, he slid it back in and pressed play again. Still nothing.

  And that’s when he felt something tug at his insides, wrap a cold, clawed hand around his intestines and give them a squeeze. Maybe
this was all imagined. Maybe they were right.

  He felt hot tears begin to film his eyes.

  Then a calm voice floated over the speakers.

  ‘Try and relax, Sylvia. Make yourself comfortable. That’s right… OK, are you ready to begin?’

  George heard an affirmation, soft, gentle, nervous.

  ‘I’m ready, Dr Talbot,’ a faint, tremulous Sylvia Tredwin said.

  24

  The Stinging of the Wind

  ‘I want you to cast your mind back to October 15th 1974. You’re waking up that morning. What do you see?’

  There was a silence lasting five seconds or more. Sylvia Tredwin’s eyes remained closed. Her lips a tight line. So Arthur Talbot tried again, gently repeating his words.

  ‘It’s cold and dark outside,’ said Sylvia Tredwin dreamily.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s five-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes. Bruce has gone out to the fields already. He had to check on the fences and the sheep.’

  ‘How do you feel? Are you happy or sad this morning?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m happy,’ she said. ‘It’s early and it’s pitch-black outside, but I like living here. It’s so much better than being in the city.’

  ‘And your husband, Bruce? How does he make you feel?’

  ‘Bruce?’ she gave a little chiming chuckle. ‘I love him, silly! He’s my husband.’

  ‘So you can’t think of any reason why you’d want to leave him, to leave Petheram?’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ She frowned slightly. ‘Though some of the villagers don’t like me at all. I haven’t done anything to them, but somehow I get the impression I’m not liked at all. I don’t know why.’

  ‘And does that upset you?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘I try to be nice to them when I see them, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I put on my best clothes for them, make myself look presentable. The woman at the shop all but turns her nose up at me when I go in. She never smiles.’

  ‘So you don’t have many friends in Petheram?’

  ‘I don’t have any friends yet. Oh, I do have one man who likes me…’

  ‘And who is that?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Jeff Lee. He’s married with a teenage daughter – or she’s coming up to that age. His wife is alright, but she’s one of those that always looks at me suspiciously, gives me a face like she’s sniffed up a bad smell.’

  ‘So how did you and Mr Lee get to be friends?’ She hesitated, swallowed. He sensed she was approaching some kind of emotional hurdle, so he pressed again, gently. ‘How did you come to be friends, Sylvia?’

  ‘He’s teaching me to read.’

  Talbot raised a brow. ‘He’s teaching you to read?’ he repeated. ‘Can’t you read?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mother drank, dad…’ she paused. ‘I never got the opportunity. But I always wanted to read. To be able to read to my children when I have them – you know, bedtime stories, fairytales, that kind of thing. I never had them read to me as a child, so, well, you know…’

  ‘Does your husband know you can’t read?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He says it doesn’t matter to him whether I can or not. But he doesn’t want me to mention it to anyone.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because I guess he’s embarrassed about it. Even his mother doesn’t like me, so I suppose he doesn’t want to give them any more ammunition to dislike me than he has to.’

  ‘Does he know this Jeff Lee is giving you lessons?’

  ‘No. No one does. We meet in secret. Sometimes Jeff comes to the house when I know Bruce will be away. We first met when the mobile library came to the village. I always loved the smell and feel of books, the possibility they offered, so I went inside the big yellow van and just stared at the spines. Then Jeff Lee came inside. We got to talking, and somehow he spotted that I couldn’t read. Don’t ask me how. Maybe it was in the way I reacted to someone asking me about what books I like. He met me some time later and came straight out and asked me about it. I said not to be silly, of course I could read, sent him away with a flea in his ear. But I relented. He is such a nice man. That’s when I went back and asked him to help me, and he agreed.’

  ‘And it’s going well?’

  ‘Oh, Yes!’ she said, her face lighting up. ‘I’ve got books of my own now that I am trying to read. I’m attempting to read Billy Bunter’s Brain-wave, but Jeff tells me not to run before I can walk.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Talbot. ‘But I take it the lessons are still a secret from everyone?’

  ‘Absolutely. I don’t want anyone to find out that I can’t read. It’s been a horrible thing to live with, to hide from people day to day. My ambition is to one day read out an entire book to my husband, one of his favourite paperbacks. He’ll be so pleased, I know he will.’

  ‘So will you be meeting Jeff today?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, we arranged to meet at a place on the other side of the village. It’s an old lime quarry and there are the remains of an old house there.’

  ‘It’s November. A bit cold though, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not really. We’ve had a really mild snap for a week or so. It’s been T-shirt weather, but it will change. That’s what the weather forecaster says. And there’s nowhere else to go when we can’t meet here. It’s not been bad during the summer but now that winter’s here it’ll start to get cold, that’s for sure. But we only meet for half an hour or so now. To exchange books, for him to give me a tip or two, listen to me read, that kind of thing. I’ll try to get back before Bruce notices I’m missing. I’ll say I’ve been a walk or something.’

  Talbot was making notes, scribbling on a pad, though he leant across to the table to ensure the tape recorder was working properly. ‘What time did you arrange to meet Jeff?’

  ‘Five-thirty this evening.’

  ‘Alright, let’s move forward, shall we? It’s now five-fifteen in the evening. What are you doing right now?’

  ‘I’m looking at my coat, wondering whether I should take it. It’s getting a bit cold. I decide to leave it there, so that if Bruce comes in he won’t think I’ve gone far. I look at the clock and go out of the house.’

  ‘Are you going to meet Jeff Lee?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, and I have to hurry or I will be late. I pick up my book and a torch, because it’s getting dark outside already.’

  ‘Tell me where you go now.’

  ‘I leave the house and turn on my torch. I take the lane that cuts by our cottage. It’s dark, what with the trees over the road.’

  ‘Are you scared of the dark?’

  ‘No, why should I be? There are too many other things to be afraid of. The dark isn’t one of them.’

  ‘OK, Sylvia, so you’re going up the lane. Where are you headed now?’

  ‘Out into the fields, across a stile, heading for the lime quarry.’

  ‘How far is the quarry from your house?’

  ‘Half a mile? I don’t know. Not that far.’ Then her entire frame stiffened, her eyes beneath her lids working away.

  ‘What’s wrong, Sylvia?’

  ‘I thought I heard something in the bushes by the side of the road. I shine my torch over them but I can’t see anything. I’m just being silly. I carry on, but every now and again I shine my torch behind me, just to make sure. It’s probably a fox or a badger.’

  ‘Have you far to go now?’

  ‘No. Wait a minute. There’s someone in the lane in front of me.’

  ‘Can you see who it is?’ Talbot pressed.

  ‘No, they’re in shadow. Oh, they’ve turned on a torch.’

  ‘Can you see who it is now?’

  Sylvia squeezed her eyes tight, as if squinting in the dark.

  ‘I’m shining my torch… I see that it’s Jeff’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘His broth
er-in-law? What’s his name?’

  ‘I can’t see which one it is yet, because he has two, but he’s coming towards me. He’s smiling at me. I see now. It’s Robert Cowper, from the garage.’

  ‘Do you know Robert Cowper?’

  ‘Oh yes. Not a lot, but he seems a nice enough man.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He’s asking me if I’m alright. Hopes I’m not getting lost in the dark. I tell him I’m fine. Then he tells me I won’t find Jeff up at the lime quarry. I start to get nervous, tell him I don’t know what he means. I don’t know how he knows about us, see? But he smiles and says that it’s fine and that Jeff is waiting for me elsewhere. I don’t know what to say at first, then I try to make out I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he says it’s OK, he knows about me and Jeff. Do you, I say? He’s telling me not to worry, that he’ll take me to Jeff, make sure I don’t get lost in the dark. I tell him it’s OK, but he’s taking my arm, quite firmly, and leading me away from the lane. He’s chatting quite amiably. But now we’re entering a field. Where’s Jeff, I say?’

  She fell quiet, her jaw muscles tensing.

  Talbot tapped his pen against his lips, waiting. ‘Please go on, Sylvia. What is happening? Can you see Jeff?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘I’m suddenly blinded by bright lights, shining into my eyes. I put my arm over them to shield them from the glare. I realise they’re a bank of lights from a tractor parked on the field by the hedge. Robert is grabbing me by the arm. It hurts. I feel his nails digging in. His voice changes. Now he’s saying something horrid close to my ear…’

  ‘What is he saying, Sylvia?’

  She wriggled uncomfortably in the leather chair. ‘He’s calling me a whore, a good-for-nothing harlot. I’m trying to scream, but he’s putting a hand over my mouth and I see another figure rushing from the tractor, a dark shadow bursting through the bright lights. As soon as he speaks I know who it is…’

  ‘Go on, Sylvia…’

  ‘It’s Christian Phelps… His dad runs the White Hart pub in the village.’

  Sylvia Tredwin’s body twitched and jerked as she appeared to struggle with invisible attackers. Talbot was speechless for a second or two. ‘Are you sure, Sylvia? I want you to tell me the truth now.’