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

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Adam said. ‘I’m Eva!’

  ‘So where is Adam now?’

  ‘Home,’ he said.

  ‘Look, I have someone, a friend I call Cameron. He’s in my head, too. He’s every bit a part of me as Eva is to you.’

  ‘Cameron?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, Cameron. He’s been there for me when nobody else was. You understand, don’t you? I mean, Eva is the same for you, isn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe…’ he said, his face contorted by his turbulent thoughts. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Cameron is the one who writes my books. He’s this other part of me that is not very nice really. Every now and again he comes to the surface, becomes that part of me that sometimes I’d like to be but have always been afraid to become. He becomes the channel for all my anger, my bitterness, my insecurities…’ He gulped. His mouth and throat were parched. ‘Just like Eva does for you. You were close to her as a kid, but she died. Yet you can’t let her go, can you? She’s become a part of you. She’s the part that isn’t afraid to take out her revenge on those that hurt your mother. Through her you’ll kill those that helped kill everything you ever loved. But it’s not really you, not the Adam I know. He’s a nice guy. He wouldn’t do such a thing…’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Adam said, his voice hushed as he looked down at the lighter in his hand.

  ‘Put that thing down, Adam,’ he beseeched. ‘We’ll talk things through. We’ll go to the police together, you and me, what do you say?’

  Silence. Save for the scratching of the crows above them. Phelps has gone quiet, holding his breath, staring fixedly at Adam.

  For a second or two, George saw Adam Tredwin’s gentle eyes peering sorrowfully through the grotesque mask that was his dead sister Eva.

  But in an instant he had disappeared. ‘He’s got to die…’ Eva said, her thumb flicking the wheel. Sparks shot out and a tiny blue flame sprang into life. He turned to face Phelps. Urine was gushing from between his legs and running down them in acid-yellow rivulets.

  The loud explosion took George by surprise. Adam Tredwin’s body jerked forward as his shoulder was ripped apart. George turned to see his Uncle Robert standing in the doorway, gun smoke curling upwards from the barrel of his Uncle Gary’s shotgun.

  27

  A Mumbled Jumble of Voices

  ‘Move aside!’ Robert Cowper shouted to George. ‘You’re blocking my aim!’

  Adam tottered uncertainly on his feet, clutching his bloodied shoulder.

  ‘Put the gun down!’ George yelled.

  ‘I said get out of my way, George!’ his uncle returned.

  ‘No, you can’t shoot him!’

  ‘Like hell I can’t!’ he retorted. ‘Now get out of my way!’

  Adam picked up the lighter that had fallen to the ground. He started to flick the wheel again.

  ‘I know what happened, Uncle Robert,’ said George. ‘I know what you and Phelps did… I know mother’s part in all this. It’s got to end now.’

  Robert licked his lower lip. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, George.’

  ‘I know very much what I’m talking about, uncle. And you know what I’m saying is true.’

  ‘So what if it is?’ he said. ‘That bitch deserved everything she got. They all did. Now step aside. I’ve got to finish this once and for all, and you’re either with me or you’re not.’

  ‘So what? You’ll kill me too, is that it?’

  ‘If I have to kill you, I will,’ he said determinedly, his jaw setting.

  The lighter produced a flame and it lit up Adam’s manic eyes as he held it before his ashen face. He glanced at George. ‘Ask Robert who killed your father,’ Adam said, lifting his hand, about to throw the lighter into the pool of fuel at Phelps’s feet.

  Robert pulled the trigger and Adam’s head exploded into a scarlet fountain. Blood and pieces of brain splashed onto George’s stunned face as Adam Tredwin fell down into a bloody, untidy bundle.

  Horrified, George turned to see his Uncle Robert loading two more cartridges into the gun. ‘Jesus, what have you done?’ he said, his voice wavering. Then fear chewed at his insides as he realised the gun was being trained on him. ‘You can’t…’ he said, backing away and almost tripping over Adam’s dead body.

  ‘You said it yourself, you know it all. I can’t have you spouting the truth to the police. Sorry, George, but you should have kept your nose out of things and let the past stay in the past.’

  ‘My father didn’t die of natural causes. You murdered him…’

  He shrugged. ‘He told me he was going to own up to things, let it all out. Sure I had to kill him – he’d sink us all. I didn’t know he’d already contacted ladyboy here. Hell, George, your dad was a dead man anyway – his bad heart would have got him in the end. I did him a favour by holding his head under the water. I did us both a favour.’

  ‘And mum – does she know what you did to him?’

  George saw a shadow at the doorway behind Robert, someone moving outside, and hope of rescue seeped like a warm balm through his body.

  ‘She loved the man too much,’ Robert said. ‘She was besotted with him. That was her problem – it always had been. She didn’t want to lose him. Of course she doesn’t know I killed him. But I did it for her. I’ve done what I’ve done for the sake of the family.’

  ‘My mother told you that I’d be here, didn’t she? She went running to you.’

  He nodded. ‘What else could she do? You’re planning on ruining everything.’

  ‘And she doesn’t care whether I die or not. She’s as bad as you!’ he spat.

  ‘For loving her husband like she did?’

  ‘She’s a possessive, jealous, cruel bitch!’ George fired. ‘Look what her possessiveness led to. But I guess you and Phelps here didn’t need much of an excuse, did you? You both enjoyed your perverted raping of Sylvia. You’re sick, the two of you. You all are!’

  The shadow at the door resolved itself into the shape of a man. George recognised him. It was his Uncle Gary.

  ‘I never wanted it to come to this, George. You know I like you.’

  ‘Like me? You threatened to kill me as a kid, and you’re pointing a gun at me!’

  ‘Needs must, dear boy…’

  Gary’s horrified face at the door said it all. But George saw Robert’s finger tightening on the trigger.

  ‘How can you hope to get away with all this?’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you thought about that, Uncle Robert? First my father, then Adam and now me? There’s just too much to keep hidden. You’ll get found out.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’ He sighed. ‘Christ, George, why did you have to go poking your nose into things, eh? Why’d you put me in this situation? I don’t really want to kill you, but you’re leaving me no other option.’

  ‘Put the gun down, Robert,’ said Gary, stepping into the silo. His eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, played over the remains of Adam, and then he saw Phelps sitting naked in the chair.

  Robert swung round and trained the gun on his brother. ‘Fuck it, Gary, why’d you have to come here? Get the hell away and mind your own business.’

  ‘I’d ask you to tell me it isn’t true, but I can see that it is. All of it.’ He shook his head. ‘What have you done, you stupid bastard?’

  ‘I said get away from here, Gary, and we’ll talk about this later. Let me do what I’ve got to do.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Robert. You’ve done far too much harm already.’ He took a step forward. ‘I loved her, Robert, and you killed her…’

  ‘You’re spouting gibberish, Gary…’

  ‘I loved Sylvia Tredwin. It was me she’d been seeing, not Jeff.’

  Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’d been having an affair with Jeff.’

  Gary shook his head. ‘She’d been seeing me. OK, so it was twice and then she called it off. She loved her husband too much. But I couldn’t stop loving her. I never have. And you, you
bastard, you did that to her…’

  Robert swung the gun up to aim at Gary’s throat. ‘I mean it, Gary, I’ll use this thing.’

  ‘Put my gun down,’ Gary said firmly.

  George spied the metal pipe that Adam had used on him, lying in front of him on the floor. With Robert’s back to him and his attention diverted he bent down and picked it up. The pipe was slippery with blood. And the action caused the pain in his busted arm to shoot through him like a hundred volts. He gulped down the shock of it, his eyes watering.

  Gary said, ‘So you’ll think nothing of killing me too? Your brother? Are you really that far gone?’

  ‘I will if I have to.’ His eyes hardened. ‘You’re as guilty as I am, Gary. You covered up for Cassie’s part in Bruce Tredwin’s murder. You’ll go to jail for it.’

  ‘I thought it was an accident. I was protecting her, and I was young, not sure what I should do. But I’ll not be a party to this,’ he replied, taking another step closer to Robert. ‘You’re not going to drag me into this mess. I listened to you both once before and I’ve regretted that ever since. But not again. You’re going to have to kill me, because I’m not going to let you gun down George in cold blood.’

  At the same time that George lunged forward with the pipe, Robert pulled the trigger on the shotgun, and Gary Cowper flew backwards with the force of the double barrels hitting him square in the upper chest, tearing it apart.

  The pipe hit Robert on the shoulder and the man yelped in pain, spinning round and lashing out wildly with the shotgun. The barrel struck George on his broken arm and he too yelled out in agony, dropping the pipe and falling weakly to his knees.

  Robert struck out with the stock of the shotgun, and brought it down firmly on the side of George’s already bruised head. He fell face down onto the cold concrete, his world a kaleidoscope of pain and flashing colours. He could smell petrol, strong and noxious, his mind telling him to get up, to get the hell out of there, but he was too weak, in too much pain, and as he turned his head he saw his Uncle Robert reloading the shotgun.

  He had little time to consider his approaching death, for unconsciousness swept over him like night sweeping over the land.

  More flashing lights. Penetrating his closed eyelids. A mumbled jumble of voices accompanied them.

  Wake up, man, said Cameron from deep within his head. A faint echo of its former self. You gotta wake up. You’re in deep trouble here.

  George Lee prised open an eyelid. Blue, flashgun-like lights penetrated the slit. He tried to move, but his body seemed to be weighed down under a sheet of lead. He was lying down, as if on a bed. Then the pain engulfed him and he cried out.

  He felt a hand on his arm, and a brief, sharp pain. A needle going in?

  George, you dunderhead – wake up! Cameron sounded unusually panicky.

  ‘Leave me alone…’ George returned weakly.

  The pain at once slowly began to subside. He opened his eyes fully. There was a man wearing some kind of uniform bending over him, stowing away a syringe. A paramedic? He angled his head and made out two police officers in their bulky padded vests. Standing by them was his Uncle Robert.

  And that’s when the horror inside the silo came crashing back in on him.

  He called something out, but was dismayed to hear his words coming out slurred, almost meaningless. The police officers and his uncle turned to stare at him, the officers’ eyes severe and accusing, his uncle’s grave. George tried to get up, but he glanced down to see that he was strapped firmly down to an ambulance trolley, which being lifted up. As he was threaded into the waiting ambulance he saw three police cars and another ambulance parked by the grain silo, their lights flashing strobe-like upon the metal of the storage unit, lending it an extraterrestrial appearance, he thought, unaware of the irony.

  ‘That’s him!’ he shouted, his tongue feeling like it had swollen to twice its size. ‘My Uncle Robert killed them! He tried to kill me! Arrest him!’

  Just before the ambulance door was slammed shut he saw Christian Phelps being led away to the second ambulance, wrapped in a blanket and aided by two paramedics. He was being comforted. Comforted!

  ‘They’re murderers and rapists!’ George yelled at one of the two paramedics who bent over him. The ambulance began to move away at speed, its sirens blaring. One paramedic, his face solemn, lifted another syringe, filled it from a bottle. ‘What are you doing?’ George beseeched. ‘I have to tell the police…’

  Without ceremony, and a tad too rough for his liking, the needle was thrust into the yielding flesh of George’s arm and after a second or two his head began to feel fuzzy.

  ‘What a bastard,’ said the man, disposing of the syringe.

  ‘This guy looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,’ observed the other. ‘But I guess that’s the case. You can never tell a murderer by their appearance.’

  ‘What?’ mumbled George, fighting the sleep that was creeping stealthily upon him. ‘I’m not the… murderer…’ he said, squeezing his eyes to try and block out the prowling, advancing tiredness. ‘You’re mistaken… Look inside my coat pocket. There… There are tapes… It’s proof…’

  One of the paramedics rummaged about in George’s coat, pulled out two audio cassettes. At first he frowned, but it gave way to smug grin and he held the tapes up for his companion to see.

  ‘Superman?’ he said. ‘So Superman has proof, has he?’

  ‘No!’ George mumbled drowsily as the man thrust the childhood tape from his bedroom in front of his bleary eyes. ‘That’s not them. They’ve been switched…’

  ‘Sure they have,’ he replied, tossing the tapes to the side. He turned, straight-faced, to his colleague. ‘Poor sods,’ he said. ‘He took his uncle’s shotgun and blasted them to pieces. This guy is a real nutter.’

  I told you that you were in deep shit, said Cameron. But do you ever listen to me?

  ‘Shut up, Cameron!’ George managed to yell before his eyes closed and the black hood of sleep was pulled inescapably over his head.

  ‘My point exactly,’ said the paramedic, raising a knowing eyebrow at his colleague.

  28

  Mad, Bad and Dangerous

  ‘Are you disappointed with me?’ George Lee asked.

  Doctor David Massey reached forward and pressed the button to turn off the tiny recorder. He took in a long, deep breath and sat back in his chair, arms folded. He studied George intently, rubbing his finger over his chin again in that way that signified something was going on in his head.

  ‘Why would I be disappointed, George?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe you thought I would finally admit to murdering my uncle and Adam Tredwin.’

  ‘The treatments seem to have been working,’ he said. ‘You don’t talk to Cameron anymore, which is a good sign.’

  ‘A sign that I’m finally not as mad as I used to be. Not as mad as when I kidnapped Christian Phelps, then Adam Tredwin, and finally blasted two people away with my uncle’s stolen shotgun.’ He leant forward in his chair. ‘You are disappointed. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with me, George, and everything to do with you and your health.’

  ‘My health? What does Her-fucking-Majesty’s Prisons care about my health? If they cared they would have recognised I was innocent a long time ago. I’m in here, locked away, branded a loony and a murderer while they’re out there free to do as they please.’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘Can’t you see I’m innocent? I thought a new guy, looking at things afresh, might be able to see through the crap you’ve all been fed. But I guess I was wrong; you’re as bad as everyone else.’

  ‘You still feel the world is against you, don’t you, George?’

  ‘I don’t feel it – I know it!’ He felt himself getting heated.

  ‘You will have to calm down, George, or you will be taken straight back. You don’t want that just yet, do you?’

  George Lee shook his head. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Look
at the facts, George. You’ve had a history of mental illness. You were in hospital as a young boy, and on medication a number of times throughout your life. You created a violent alter ego called Cameron – a name you even used as a pseudonym to write, quite frankly, savage and revealing novels filled with death, disfigurement and dismemberment. In particular, mothers, fathers and sisters bear the brunt of a lot of these crimes…’

  ‘It’s what sells!’ George defended. ‘I had to make a living!’

  ‘That may be so, but in themselves the books are extremely revealing about the turmoil going on in your mind.’

  George scowled. ‘They’re books. It’s fiction. You psychologists are all the same, looking for something that isn’t there and finding it.’

  ‘You created a false world, George, like the world within one of your novels, in order to make sense of your upbringing, your sense of isolation and loneliness, your perceived mother’s and father’s distant or non-existent love for you. You needed a vehicle that would explain it all. And the story of Sylvia Tredwin’s disappearance gave you that. You said you found documents that proved your father’s involvement with the Tredwins…’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘There were no such documents, George. They were only utility bills.’

  ‘They were exchanged by my uncle and mother,’ he returned icily.

  ‘You saw what you wanted to see, George. As with the so-called evidence of the hit-and-run which killed Bruce Tredwin, the fact that your uncle replaced the damaged wing on your father’s car. Again, there was no evidence of any such work being undertaken.’

  ‘That’s what they told you.’

  ‘That’s the truth, George. As is your assertion that you were sent audio tapes of the interview with Sylvia Tredwin. The Talbots categorically denied they sent you any such tapes, not least because of patient confidentiality. They admit to you seeking an interview with them and badgering them to relinquish tapes that may or may not have been in their possession, even offering to pay money for them, but that is the extent of it. You did not receive anything from them. And the finding of your own Superman story tapes from your childhood, which you claimed to have been of the interview with Sylvia Tredwin, but which in reality you took from the drawer in your room, did nothing but confirm your delusion.’