FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) (19 page)

‘I’m no reporter,’ said George.

‘That much is clear. It’s been a big misunderstanding, but all the same, you can’t go round bothering people like that if they don’t want it. And you damaged his phone, which you’ll have to pay for.’

It was only a Nokia,
Cameron whispered.

‘Snob,’ said George.

‘Pardon?’ the officer said.

George smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m not a snob, jealous of them and their nice house or anything.’

The officer regarded him carefully, then got George to sign the form. ‘That’s as may be,’ he said. ‘What’s your interest in Sylvia Tredwin, if you’re not a reporter?’

‘I know her son. I come from the same village.’ He had to be careful not to mention he was a writer. ‘I wanted to see her. I’ve a few questions to ask her. And I thought we could catch up on old times.’

He nodded slowly. ‘You think you can talk to her?’

‘Yes, I suppose.’ He produced the paper. ‘I had this address for her. I thought she lived there. Seems I was mistaken.’

‘No mistake. She used to live there. With her son and daughter.’

‘So you know her? Do you know where she lives
now?’ He forgot his bruising, and his embarrassment at being beaten, thinking that it might all have been worth it after all.

‘I know her
alright. I also know she’s stone-cold dead, so you ain’t going to be speaking to her soon, not unless you’re any good at séances.’ He chuckled at his little quip.

‘Dead? But I was told she was alive…’

‘I don’t know who told you that, but they sent you on a wild-goose chase, son. You really don’t know what went off at that house you just visited, do you?’

He shook his head lamely. ‘
Can you tell me?’

‘Sylvia Tredwin came to town with her two kids
in the 1980s, took up with a bloke she met and lived in that very house, like I said. But she gradually lost it, went mad, whatever you want to call it. They sectioned her, put her in a psychiatric ward, then a mental home for a year or two. She used to rave about men from Mars who were going to come down and take her away. A real sad case, she was. Anyhow, the bloke she met – nice guy, a builder by trade – looks after the kids while she’s away, just like they were his own kids, and after a while Sylvia’s told she’s much better and let out. She goes back to live with her family again. Just when it looks like things are getting back to normal for her, just after they get married and return from honeymoon, she flips again, only this time it’s not nice. She goes downstairs, gets a kitchen knife and goes back to the bedroom and slits her husband’s throat, as casually as if she’s opening an envelope. The worst thing is she goes into the kids’ bedroom and kills her young daughter in the same way. The boy wakes up, manages to escape and runs out of the house. The police are eventually called, but when we get to the house we discover Sylvia Tredwin has cut her own wrists. She was dead when we arrived. I remember it well. The papers love that kind of thing. Which is why the Stevens’ reacted like they did. It might have been a long time ago, but every now and again some damn rookie reporter sniffs it out and decides to open it up, going round to their place and bothering them.’

George Lee gasped, dropping the pen onto the desk. ‘She’s dead? Sylvia Tredwin is dead?’ he said weakly.

‘Yep. That’s what I said.’

‘And so is Sylvia’s daughter? Eva?’

‘That’s right.’

George plonked back down on the chair, his legs unable to take his weight.
If Eva Tredwin was dead, who was the woman Adam claimed to be his sister?

‘You OK?’ the officer asked. ‘You don’t look
at all well.’

He ate the tea his mother had prepared for him. A salad. Too hot for anything else, she’d said. Of course, it had been a perfunctory affair, the way she asked him what he might like, the way she plonked it down in front of him as he sat at the table. Waiting, like a kid all over again, because she refused to let him help in the kitchen. He might break something. He never washed the lettuce properly. The tea he made was always too strong. So he had to sit there and endure the pained silence while his mother and sister went through the motions of getting the evening meal ready, no one really talking except about something practical. And then he had to sit and eat the thing, with both women sitting opposite him, the empty chair to his right where his father always used to sit a presence in its own right. Trying to work out what was going through their minds. What thoughts about him lay beh
ind the fiendish glint in Amelia’s eye as she nibbled at a slice of bread and butter, her lips greasy and shiny with it as she licked them with the tip of her slug-like tongue?

And all the while he had secrets inside his own head that were burning like firebrands, scorching their way through his sku
ll and desperate to break free.

You could pick up a knife
, said Cameron,
and reach across with it and plunge it deep into Amelia’s throat. Look at her, she’s gloating. Not exactly grinning, but she’d like to.

George Lee looked up from his speared, blood-red tomato and met his sister’s fixed gaze. She chewed food slowly, and even mad
e the act of swallowing deeply significant.

A quick slice
, said Cameron,
and she’d really be grinning, eh?

‘How’s Mrs Phelps?’ George asked, ignoring the nagging little voice in his head. ‘Any sign of Christian, yet?’

His mother raised both eyebrows in a tragic little gesture. ‘No sign of him yet. And she’s really getting herself worked up over it. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for his absence. He’s got caught up somewhere.’

‘And men do like to disappear every
now and again,’ said George. His mother stared at him. ‘You know, space and time for themselves. Going to the allotment, fishing, garden sheds. Places where they can be themselves.’

‘Yes,’ said his mother, picking up the tiniest piece of cheese on her fork and putting it into her mouth. ‘We all need to have our private space, I suppose.’

‘How about dad’s private space?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but it came out rather too quickly. He caught sight of his sister looking up at him.

‘What do you mean?’ his mother asked.

‘He must have had private places he went to, private things he never really shared with you.’

‘Just eat your tea,’ said Amelia quickly.

‘We shared everything,’ his mother said.

George angled his head slightly. ‘Everything?’

‘Where did you dash off to today?’ said Amelia. ‘Talking of private places.’

‘
Birmingham,’ he said.

He expected some kind of reaction, but they simply looked at him waiting for more.

‘Whatever for?’ said his mother. ‘That’s a good five hours round trip.’

‘Research,’ said George.

‘Well I hope it was worth it,’ his mother shrugged, setting about her tea again. ‘That’s a lot of petrol to use, and it isn’t getting any cheaper. Must you always waste money so easily?’

‘I’m more than capable of spending money where I have to,’ said George, irked by the fact she made him feel
like a kid all over again. How did she do that? Why must she do that?

‘So do bruises naturally follow research?’ she said without looking at him.

‘I told you, I tripped,’ he explained. ‘I met with some interesting people today.’

‘Oh yes? That’s nice.’

He reached into his trouser pocket and put his hands on the bank statements and the addresses. ‘How close was dad to the Tredwins?’

At that, Amelia reached out across the table and knocked over the large jug of spring water. It sloshed all over George.

‘Amelia!’ he shouted, shooting to his feet, his shirtfront wet. He glowered at her. ‘You did that on purpose!’

‘I did not!’ she insisted.

‘What do you mean, how close was your father to the Tredwins?’ his mother said, setting down her knife and fork.

Annoyed, he stood there holding out his damp shirt. ‘How well did he know them?’

‘That’s a curious question, George,’ she answered.

‘Get yourself dried,’ Amelia insisted, and let us get on with our tea.

‘Is it so curious? So how well did he know them? I mean, did he
really
know them?’

‘You’re talking in riddles, George,’ said his mother patiently. ‘He knew them like everyone in the village knew them, which was not very well at all.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

She frowned. ‘Of course I’m sure. George, what are you trying to tell me?’

‘Ignore him, mother,’ said Amelia. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet over something. You know how he is. What is it, George, is it Cameron making you say these things?’

‘Amelia!’ said their mother.

But it had done its trick. It struck George where it really hurt.

Go on, show them
, said Cameron.
They deserve it. What are you waiting for? Get the papers out now!

‘I’m not that
same kid anymore, Amelia,’ George said, trying to regain his composure, but feeling it crumble like paper soaking in water. He pulled out the papers and slammed them on the table. ‘What was dad doing sending money to the Tredwins?’ he fired, his cheeks flushed.

Both women stared open-mouthed at the bank statements and the well-worn piece of paper bearing the addresses.

‘Your dad never sent money…’ said his mother.

‘You selfish little brat,’ hissed Amelia. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you? Why must you play these games when you know how your mum is feeling? How I’m feeling?’

‘They’re not games. Look, he kept a private bank account and was sending money through to the Tredwins, and did so for years. See…’ he said, selecting out a statement and stabbing his finger onto it, ‘…that’s what happened to your insurance policy money. Take a look if you don’t believe me.’

Silently, his mother reached out, and her white, frail-looking fingers pluck
ed at the edge of the statement and pulled it slowly across the table over to her.

Amelia made a move to take it away from her. ‘Ignore that, mum. It’s just George being spiteful. It’s one of his bloody games again.’

But their mother held the statement close to her chest, away from Amelia’s eager hands. She didn’t attempt to read the paper.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Amelia asked. ‘Is it true?’

Silence fell over the small room. Finally, his mother folded the paper into a tight little square. Set it on the table. ‘It’s not true,’ she said calmly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, George.’

‘What?’ said George. ‘It’s in black and white. The man was sending them money. Why would he do that? Why?’

‘It’s not true,’ she reiterated, her lower lip trembling.

‘Do you want to know where Adam Tredwin got the money to set up his business? It’s obvious it was with the help of dad’s insurance money.’

‘No!’ his mother screamed. ‘No, no, no!’

They were both taken aback by how hysterical she h
ad become, ripping the paper to shreds and tossing it in the air so that it fell like huge snowflakes onto the salad. Tears streamed down her face, her mouth agape in a ghastly mask of grief. Amelia rushed to her, grabbed her and tried to console her. George was immediately sorry for what he’d done, the sight of his anguished mother cutting into his stomach like a red-hot knife.

‘Now look what you’ve gone and done!’ said Amelia, cuddling the hunched, sobbing woman. ‘You’re a spiteful, evil man, George!’

‘But it’s true!’ he stammered. He swallowed hard. ‘Mum!’ he said. ‘Mum, please…’

‘Get away from me!’ she screeched. ‘Get him away from me!’ Her eyes had turned from wet pits of despair to fiery orbs of hate. ‘He’s not my son! What son would do this to his mother? Get him away, get him away!’

‘Mum…’ he said, feeling his own tears begin to well up hot and telling. He wished he’d never listened to Cameron. Wished he could cut him out of his skull like they cut away cancer.

Amelia led her away, upstairs. Through the ceiling downstairs he heard them pad across the bedroom floor, the creak of his mother’s bed as Amelia lay her down. Heard her muffled voice trying to sooth her mother, but to no avail. The cries of the old woman reached him like the cries of a mournful, earthbound spirit, till he could stand
hearing it no more and ran from the cottage, his mind a seething maelstrom of conflicting emotions. He wanted to end it all. He wanted to end his pathetic little life once and for all. He was no use to anyone. By being alive all he caused was trouble. It had always been the case.

He ran, seemingly aimlessly, but instead
, unconsciously, found himself standing by the spot where his father had been found dead in the stream.

‘Why, dad?’ he asked. ‘Why have you done this to me? You’re dead and yet you’re still getting at me, making me feel small, making me
feel like everything’s my fault, making me wish I’d never been born.’

The stream gurgled away to itself, a
strangled reply of sorts. He sat on the grassed bank and put his head in his hands, sobbing like a child. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but the next thing he knew the evening sun was hanging low in the sky and the dusty-grey blanket of dusk was starting to drag itself across the heavens. He heard footsteps making their way towards him through the dry grass. He turned to see his Uncle Gary.

‘What’s going on, George?’ he asked evenly, coming to stand over him.

George wiped away a runny nose, shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said.

His uncle sat down on the bank beside him, letting out a grunt as he did so. The pair stared into the swift-running water. ‘
Thought I’d find you here. Your mother is very upset,’ he said quietly, plucking up a grass stem. He placed it between his lips and chewed at it.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘You don’t sound too beat up about it.’

‘It’s not my fault.’

‘So who went off like they did at the tea table? Who started flashing so-called bank statements around, making all sorts of accusations? Mr Nobody?’

George Lee looked at his uncle, his face wreathed in anger. ‘Don’t you go talking to me like a kid, too, Uncle Gary! I’m almost forty, for Christ’s sake!’

The man held up meaty hands, their lines ingrained with years of oil and grease almost impossible to get out. ‘Sorry, George. I can see you’re a bit sensitive at the moment.’ He flicked the grass stem into the churning water and watched it spiral away downstream. ‘We all get upset, George. Losing someone does that to a man, even grown men. Losing your father, well, that’s like losing a bit of yourself. What you’re feeling now is grief. That’s what’s making you act like you are. It’s perfectly normal.’

‘But there are bank statements that prove he was sending the money to the Tredwins!’

‘Look, I ain’t seen these statements. So they might prove he was sending money somewhere, maybe, but the Tredwins? That’s a jump too far, George.’

‘I know he was sending them money, for some reason. Just as I know that there’s something fishy about the time he got his car fixed.’

Gary’s eyebrows lowered. ‘What are you going on about?’

George
hadn’t meant to say that. But like so many things recently, they just seemed to be spilling right on out without him having a hand in it. ‘Remember the Ford Fiesta you sold him way back in the 1980s?’

‘Sure I do, I guess. He had it years. Took me ages to get him to part with it to buy another, newer car.’

‘Why did you replace the wing, Uncle Gary, so soon after you sold it to him?’

He screwed his face up in thought. ‘Hell, George, I can’t remember every repair I’ve ever made to every car.
’

‘The bill you provided
to dad said it was corrosion.’

‘Then it was corrosion.’

‘On a nearly-new Fiesta?’

‘It happens, especially with cars made at Dagenham. You know what British workmanship was like. What are you getting so worked up about silly things like that for? Like I said, grief…’

‘Grief my arse!’ he fired. ‘Did my father knock down Bruce Tredwin and kill him?’

Gary
’s face dropped stone-cold serious. ‘Careful what you say, George. That’s madness and you know it.’

‘Did you cover up for him? Replace the damaged wing so nobody would ever know?’

Gary leant close to George, raised a stubby index finger and wagged it like a truncheon near his cheek. ‘You listen up, lad, and you listen carefully.’ A spot of spittle landed on George’s cheek. ‘You’d be wise never to mention the bloody repair on that car ever again.’