FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) (10 page)

‘Are you going, too?’ Robert asked as George grabbed his coat and followed Adam to the door.

‘He’s upset…’ he said. ‘Sorry. Anyhow, I want to see that Uncle Gary doesn’t do anything stupid. He looked really pissed off.  Catch you later.’

Robert sighed and picked up his drink.

‘Adam, wait!’ George called once outside the pub.

Adam stopped and turned around. ‘Please, don’t ruin your evening on account of me,’ he said. ‘Go back inside.’

‘I didn’t know they were going to do that,’ George repeated.

‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke, I think,’ said Adam.

‘Well it stinks,’ said George.

‘I’m used to it. I’m a Tredwin,’ he said. ‘Go back. I’m fine.’ And with that he trudged down the road and headed for home.

George watched him go, his slender form being eaten up by the gloom. Then he heard the loud banging sound from round the back of the pub. He instinctively knew it was his Uncle Gary up to no good. And true enough, he was beating the side of the Mud-Puddle Frogs’ old van with his fist. He stopped, and drunkenly searched around for something else to use. He found an empty beer bottle from a crate by the pub’s back door and tossed it at the van. It shattered loudly against the van’s side.

‘Uncle Gary! What the blazes are you doing? Stop that! You’ll get into trouble!’

But he wouldn’t stop. He now had a bottle in each hand, casually throwing them at the van. A pile of glass began to grow like a coating of ice crystals on the concrete.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ a familiar voice screamed. It was the band’s lead singer, alerted to the damage being done to his van. He dashed over to
Gary. ‘Stop that, you drunken bastard!’

Gary Cowper responded as Cowpers through the ages
had responded, and belted the singer with a meaty fist. He went down immediately.

‘That
song was in bad taste!’ Gary yelled as George grabbed his uncle’s hand, trying to restrain him.

‘You’re mad!’ said the singer, rubbing his cheek. ‘I was asked to sing the bloody song!’

‘Who asked you?’ said Gary. ‘I’ll kill the bastard. Can’t people just let things lie?’

‘I’m not saying, you great buffoon!’ said the singer, getting to his feet.

Gary was about to throw a bottle at the singer when George snatched it from his hand and dragged him away. ‘He’s drunk,’ George explained.

‘He’s dented my van!’ said the singer.

‘It was dented already!’ said Gary.

‘You’ll pay for this, you mad bastard,’ said the singer.

‘He’ll fix any damage he’s done,’ said George.

‘Like hell I will!’ said
Gary, trying to fight off his nephew with little effect.

‘Come on, Uncle Gary, let’s get you home.’

‘It was in bad taste,’ Gary murmured, now allowing himself to be led meekly away.

‘What’s he been doing?’ said Robert coming to George’s side.

George raised a shoulder. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into him.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Take him home. I’ll sort this out.’

George supported his uncle out onto the road and they hobbled back towards the garage. Up ahead they made out Adam Tredwin’s distant form, looking like a forlorn spirit hovering in the dusky light.

Later that night, Christian Phelps locked up the pub, said goodnight to the barmaid and went upstairs to bed. Gary Cowper
’s reaction had knocked quite a few pounds from his nightly takings, that’s for sure. Stupid man. And he doubted the Mud-Puddle Frogs would ever come back to play in his pub again after all that. All Cowper did was draw attention to himself. To what happened.

‘You should ban him,’ said his wife Carol.

He thought she was asleep. But she wasn’t, she was very much awake and sitting up in bed reading some chic-lit or other. In spite of being a landlord’s wife she tried her best to keep herself and her life separate from the pub. She kept to their private quarters, never took any part in the running of the pub, though the brewery thought otherwise. Why she married him he never knew. She hated his damn pub – his father’s pub, as she loved to remind him – and he thought that she hated him but never actually said it. They’d been married so long now that to him it had all become a fact of life. It surprised him, though, whenever she mentioned anything to do with the pub she detested.

‘I can’t ban
Gary, you know that,’ he said, glancing at the open window, the curtains pulled apart. ‘He’s a friend.’

‘He’s a Cowper,’ she said. ‘Why are people so afraid of the Cowpers?’

‘Don’t talk rot,’ he said. ‘I am not afraid of any Cowper.’

‘Hmmm,’ she said, flicking a page.

He tried to decipher what lay behind the irritating noise but curled his lip at her when she wasn’t looking. ‘I can’t sleep with the window and curtain open,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘It’s too hot,’ she said.

‘Well I can’t sleep, and that’s that,’ he said, striding over to the window.

He stood at the bedroom curtains and was about to draw them when he saw the young woman standing outside
on the road looking up at his bedroom window. She was in shadow, for there was very little street lighting in Petheram, the nearest lamp many yards away. But he knew it was her. The same woman he’d seen a couple of times now.

But this time he took in a sharp breath, because the woman looked like Sylvia Tredwin.

Carol eye’s flicked in his direction at the sound of his urgent breath. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.
It’s fine. Someone lurking out there on the road.’

‘It’s a public highway,’ she said. ‘You can’t lurk on a public highway.’

‘Whatever,’ he said.

He dashed
downstairs, grabbing a torch from the hall. He unlocked the door, stepped outside and aimed the torch beam in the direction where he’d last seen the woman.

But she wasn’t there.

‘I’ve seen you!’ he called out. ‘I know you’re there. What do you want?’

He expected silence and he got it, only a thin breeze wafting the leaves in the treetops replying to him.

‘I’ll call the police!’ he said. ‘Loitering with intent,’ he added.

He noticed how his breathing was getting heavier, quicker, his forehead starting to sweat. With one last look
at the road as it threaded its pale ribbon into the black blanket of night he went back into the pub and locked the door, releasing a sigh as he did so. 

‘Come through! Come through!’

Brendan Mollett bent over backwards to make George Lee as welcome as possible. From the moment he greeted him at the door to the way he fussed over making him a drink, offered him a choice of four types of biscuits that all looked to have been bought in just for the occasion of his visit, and in the way he even fluffed up a cushion on the settee before George sank into its padded oatmeal-coloured folds.

Mollett
had been retired about two years or more. He’d been looking forward to spending time with his wife who had retired at sixty, and polishing and showing off his pristine 1962 Ford Classic Consul that he was immensely proud of, but his wife had died a year before he himself reached the magic sixty-five and could finish work altogether. But George knew him as a stoic little chap, unassuming, not one to bleat about his problems. Faced everything with a cheery-faced optimism that used to irk George rather than inspire.

The house
smelled of furniture polish and air fresheners and was as neat as if Mrs Mollett was still here, embroiled still in her rigid cleaning regime. He guessed old Brendan kept the house tidy as a sort of memorial to her. He had a photograph of her on the wall, amid an array of similar family photographs. It was as if they had an audience of expectant people with smiling faces, thought George.

‘So what do you want to know?’ Brendan
Mollett asked, sitting on the edge of his seat as if ready to bounce into action.

‘Oh,’ said George, ‘where to begin?’

‘The history of the village is a long one,’ said Brendan. ‘It was mentioned in the Domesday Book, of course, and at that time…’

‘I’m really more interested in modern history,’ George interjected.

If Mollett was disappointed, he hid it well. ‘So what part of the village’s modern history? The Great War, the Second World War, Victorian, Edwardian…?’

‘The 1970s.’

Mollett’s brows lowered, but only for a fraction of a second. ‘That
is
modern. You know when you’re growing old when people refer to the 1970s as modern history. To me it seems like the 70s happened but a year or so ago. But I have to say that there is not a lot of history from the 1970s. Not a great deal going on in Petheram. Now at the time of the Great War…’

‘I’m interested in what happened to Sylvia Tredwin,’ he said.

Strangely, Brendan Mollett glanced up at the wall bearing the photographs. But not in the direction of his wife; it was at another blurred, black-and-white print of a man in a trilby. He looked George straight in the eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve heard some strange things about her recently. Do you know what happened to her?’

Mollett sat back in his armchair, averted his gaze. ‘Who knows what really happened to Sylvia Tredwin? But whatever truly happened to her, it all resulted in tragedy for her and the family.’ Again he looked up at the photograph of the man.

‘Who is that?’ George asked. ‘The man in the photo.’

‘My father, Thomas Mollett,’ he said quietly. ‘He was found dead in Langland’s Wood, near the spot where Bruce Tredwin happened upon his missing wife, in Flinder’s Field.’

‘Oh,’ said George. ‘I didn’t know… No one ever mentioned the death of your father.’

‘Certain things don’t get mentioned here in Petheram,’ he said vaguely.

‘Are the two incidents connected? Finding Sylvia Tredwin and the death of your father?’

‘The police thought not. A bizarre coincidence, they said. My father went missing on the day Sylvia Tredwin was found. A search was made and they found him in Langland’s Wood, in the tree line bordering Flinder’s Field, not a hundred yards from where Bruce found Sylvia wandering. His head had been caved in by a single blow.’

‘Oh my God,’ George said, more excited than horrified. ‘Had he been…?’

‘Murdered?’ Mollett smiled thinly and shook his head. ‘The police said he had been caught out in the storm that raged that night. He’d been unfortunate enough to have been standing beneath the bough of a tree that was brought down by the wind. The bough hit him and killed him instantly. He was found with it still lying across his head, and above him clear evidence that the bough had come away from the tree.’

‘But it’s odd that he happened to be killed on the very night Sylvia was found, and near the same spot, surely?’

‘The police could find no evidence of foul play. My father had been one of those who had been searching for Sylvia, and continued even when others had given up and dismissed her disappearance as her running off with someone or other. I remember the day he went missing – I was about twenty-eight at the time – he said he thought he knew where Sylvia might be. But he’d said that on a few occasions and was proved wrong, so there was no reason to believe he was right this time. He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.’

‘Jesus, Brendan, I’m sorry. I never knew…’

‘It’s fine. It was a long time ago.’

But George knew from the way the man’s eyes filled ever so slightly that time had not healed the wound completely.

‘So, going back to Sylvia Tredwin…’ George ventured carefully. ‘Did your father ever say anything about her disappearance?’

‘Do you mean about aliens coming down and abducting her?’ he said bluntly.

‘I guess I do. I mean, it’s a ludicrous story…’

‘Is it?’

George smiled. ‘You can’t tell me you believe it.’

‘Who knows? Many strange things have happened. I have a story in my collection that came from mediaeval times to show that odd things do occur, if you believe them. Do you know where Flinder’s Field gets its name from?’

George shook his head. ‘I’ve often wondered.’

‘
The story goes that a certain Matthew Flinder who lived in Petheram in the 1200s had three pretty daughters. But one of them was far more beautiful than any of the others. Flinder became jealous of her suitors, and very possessive of her. Apparently she also attracted the attention of the fairies that were supposed to live in an old burial mound high above the village. One day she was wandering the field and they abducted her and took her inside the mound. She was never seen again. At least, that is what Matthew Flinder said happened. Said he saw it with his own eyes. However, Matthew Flinder was accused of murdering her and hiding her body, though no body could be found. He was found guilty and hanged. But the lord of the manor also ordered the burial mound to be dug up, the field to be ploughed over so that no trace of the ancient site would exist to terrify the locals. Ever since, it has been called Flinder’s Field. Apparently, on dry summer days when the grass is parched you can still see the outline of the burial mound. Even more so from the air, so I’m told.’

‘It’s nothing but a story,’ said George. ‘Old superstitions getting the better of an ignorant peasantry.’

‘Yes, an old story. But the Flinders actually existed. One of them disappeared. She was never found, fairies or no fairies. His trial was very real. Strange things happen. Inexplicable things. We have to accept that.’

‘OK, so what exactly happened to Sylvia Tredwin?’

‘You obviously know she went missing.’

He nodded. ‘Sure. It’s the nature of her disappearance that mystifies me.’

Brendan Mollett excused himself and said he had to fetch something. He returned about five minutes later with a cardboard box-file. Resting it on his lap he lifted the lid and rummaged through papers inside. He took out a newspaper and handed it over.

‘Front page,’ said
Mollett.

Circled on the yellowing local newspaper was a small paragraph. George read it. It was short and sweet, but basically said a woman called Sylvia Tredwin had gone missing from her home in Petheram a week ago, and asking people for clues to her whereabouts. A blurred black-and-white photograph of Sylvia stared out at him. Yes, this was the woman he remembered, thought George. This was the beautiful Sylvia Tredwin of his memories.

‘Her disappearance doesn’t seem to have aroused much interest,’ said George, handing the paper back.

‘It didn’t. Though Bruce Tredwin was going mad with worry. So much so there were search parties sent out from the village to try and help him.
Your father was heavily involved in them, did his fair share of looking for the woman. Bruce was out every day. Needless to say, they didn’t find anything. It was like she’d just disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘Taken by fairies,’ said George, but realised i
t sounded almost contemptuous.

Mollett said,
‘We were highly organised. We used a grid system, people taking different parts of the grid.’

‘Who else was involved in the search exactly
?’

‘I can’t quite remember. A lot of people in the early days.’ Mollett smiled. ‘It’s so long ago now, George. I can’t remember those kinds of details. I do, however, think I kept some of the actual papers used over that week or so. They’re upstairs in a box somewhere. God knows where. I kept all kinds of local records, you see,’ he said tapping the newspaper. ‘Even back then.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘The police carried out their own search, talked to a guy who’d been in the village selling windows or something, one of the last to speak to Sylvia Tredwin, but drew a blank. Then it went quiet. People started to lose interest, started to believe their own stories about Sylvia running off with someone. My father didn’t, though. He never wavered. He used to go out with Bruce Tredwin sometimes, and the pair of them searched every hedgerow, every wood for miles. Then, of course, Bruce happened upon Sylvia a fortnight later, wandering in Flinder’s Field. She was stark naked, covered in bruises and mud, and rambling incoherently. That’s when she first told Bruce that she’d been abducted by men who came down from the sky.’

‘Aliens…’

‘It wasn’t so straight cut at first,’ he said. ‘Sylvia went into hospital, was treated for her superficial wounds and for shock. She was interviewed by the police, but they couldn’t make sense of what had happened to her. It was in hospital, when she’d recovered enough to be able to speak, that she told police she’d been abducted by aliens. Naturally, they didn’t believe her, asked her husband to try and get some sense out of her. She told him she had been taken by bright lights against her will, taken inside a shining metal spaceship where tall, elegant grey men with large black eyes and bulbous heads examined her, probed her insides with metal objects. Bruce was horrified at what he was hearing. His nerves had been torn to shreds by the worry over her disappearance, and now it was like he was faced with a different woman altogether. He was told she would be fine once she was home and had time to recover. But she never did. She got worse. I remember seeing her – what a ghastly sight. Rambling, eyes wide, sometimes grinning, other times her face screwed up in terror. She began to self-harm. She became afraid that the aliens would come back for her. It dominated her thinking. Adam was born a year later. She never took to him completely. She swore he was the result of her examinations aboard the spaceship. She called him Adam because she said she’d been told by the aliens she would have a son that would mark a new beginning for Mankind. Adam seemed the ideal name.’

‘Was she mad?’

Mollett smiled thinly. ‘What is madness?’ He took in a deep breath. ‘She believed it all. In her head it really happened. Who knows, perhaps it really did.’

‘Did anyone quiz her as to why your father was up there on the night she was discovered?’

‘Yes, but she either genuinely didn’t know, or did a good job of pretending not to know. The discovery of my father’s body and the news getting out of Sylvia’s wild assertions generated quite a bit of local interest then. And for a brief period national interest, too. We had all sorts of cranks crawling all over the village in their search for aliens, or murderers, or both. The newspapers built up the story into more than it was, as usual, and hardly a person from Petheram couldn’t escape being involved in one way or another, drawn against their will into the ensuing madness. As you know, Petheram is a quiet place that prides itself on keeping itself to itself. It didn’t like the negative limelight, so as soon as it could bury the story altogether it did. The villagers distanced themselves from the Tredwins – effectively built a moat of silence and a wall of cold shoulders to keep them at bay. Eventually the cranks get bored and went away.

‘Anyhow, Sylvia seems to get a little better, but relapses and she ends up in an institution for a while, leaving Bruce to bring up his son alone for a time. Poor man. He was shattered. So was his marriage. But he hung in there, for her, determined to get to the bottom of what actually happened to her.’

‘He never bought the alien abduction then?’

‘I never knew what he thought, to be honest. Neither did anyone else. He
closed himself off from everyone. But just as things seemed to be getting better for Sylvia and Bruce – it must have been a good eight years or more after her so-called abduction – Bruce was involved in an accident that killed him. Did you know that?’

George nodded. ‘A hit-and-run, I’m told.’

‘That’s right. Poor fellow. And Sylvia’s heavily pregnant with Eva at the time.