FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) (27 page)

‘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.’

George sat bolt upright. ‘My Uncle
Robert must have exchanged them while I was out cold. I’ll bet he knew all along he was going to frame me for the entire thing and brought them along with him when he came to the grain silo.’

David Massey nodded slowly. ‘Of course he must have.
’ He sifted through notes that were lying on the desk beside him. ‘Christian Phelps said in court that it was you who kidnapped him, then brought Adam Tredwin along. You subjected Mr Phelps to unspeakable torture. Finally, you doused him in petrol with the intention of setting fire to him, but you decided to dispose of Adam first, coldly opening fire on him, two times, first wounding him, then killing him with a shot to the head.’

Tears began to film George Lee’s eyes. ‘That’s just not true,’ he said helplessly. ‘I told you what really happened.’

‘Your Uncle Robert, alerted by your mother’s concern at your behaviour, came to the silo. Phelps said Robert tried to plead with you to put the gun down, but you were too far gone and wouldn’t listen. When your Uncle Gary came through the door, you panicked and opened fire on him, then turned the gun on Robert. But Robert managed to wrest the gun from you, hit you over the arm, breaking it, and then knocked you out with the butt of the shotgun. He phoned for the police immediately. That’s how they found you.’

‘
It’s all a fabrication. I’m not a violent man,’ he defended. ‘In spite of what novels I used to write.’

‘No?
You were involved in a brawl with a young man outside his home in Birmingham, that you started, which almost got you arrested. How is that if not violent?’

‘I was searching for the house where Sylvia Tredwin used to live, that’s all. And how would I know where she lived if I hadn’t found her address from dad’s stuff?’

‘Simple, you got the information from Adam.’

‘I did not!’

‘And you told the young woman…’ he bent to the notes again ‘…called Amy, the one living rough in the Tredwins’ old house, that you wished all your family was dead and that if you had the courage you’d kill them all yourself, or words to that effect.’

‘So? I didn’t mean that I’d do it. It was a throwaway thing, nothing more.’

‘Amy was your new girlfriend, right?’

George narrowed his eyes. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘How long had you known her, George?’

‘I never said that.’

‘Yes you did, and three members of your family heard you say it. You knew her one night, George. One night. And then you declare she’s your new girlfriend. Can’t you see how your mind was creating all manner of fictional scenarios, servicing deep-rooted needs?’ His fingers interlaced and rested on his thigh. ‘You know who she was really, don’t you?’

George nodded. ‘They told me a hundred times.’

‘She was wanted by the police.’

‘She was hardly a most-wanted criminal. It was shopl
ifting and that kind of thing. She’d had it tough as a youngster. It happens.’

‘She was the one Christian Phelps pointed out as being the woman seen
hovering near his pub, and the one your Uncle Robert also said he caught a glimpse of on the night his garage was set alight, the woman hovering near your father’s house.’

‘Amy wasn’t that woman. Adam was the one who was stalking them, dressed as Eva, watching them, waiting for his opportunity to strike…’

Massey shook his head. ‘Amy was the woman the police arrested and convicted. It wasn’t Adam Tredwin taking on the guise of his murdered sister. That part was invented by you, so you didn’t feel so alone in your creation of a violent alter ego. You created yet another fiction, George, and there is simply no proof Adam believed he was his dead sister enacting revenge on behalf of his mother.’

‘He was wearing a dress
and a wig!’ he shouted.

Massey angled his head. ‘Calm down, George. Adam was found naked, like Phelps, you know that.
Phelps said you made them both strip off.’

‘They took his clothes off
after they’d killed him. Can’t you see, it’s all about covering up their tracks and framing me for everything? You’ll be saying I killed my own father next.’

‘Your father died of natural causes, George. He wasn’t murdered. In your aggrieved state of mind you wanted to punish your father for the lack of love, attention and respect he never gave you, so, in your fictional world, you had him murdered. A violent, swift end, savagely meting out
and satisfying your inner cravings for revenge and justice. But he wasn’t murdered at all, George. In fact that is what all this has been about -
your
revenge and
your
justice. I was wrong – you are not well, George. Far from it. You are stuck in your imaginary world and until you start to admit it you are destined never to leave it.’

‘Why are you here?’ George said coldly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why now? Why at this moment in time? It wasn’t so long ago I saw old man
Ferguson for an assessment. Why is my story going to change in so short a space of time?’ He licked his lower lip in thought. ‘Why bring in someone new and expensive like you? Sure, I can tell you’re expensive. There has to be a reason why there’s renewed interest in me.  Something’s brought my story to the fore, hasn’t it? They need to assure themselves I’m still the same old nutter as before. Has someone been lifting the lid on my case?’

‘You’re quite astute, Mr Lee,’ he said.

‘Mr Lee now, is it? Friendly discussion over and done with?’

‘I know you are vaguely aware that the media have taken a renewed interest in your case. It has been on the television as part of some minor programme or other, and the newspapers have ta
ken it up. The tabloids, mainly,’ he said dismissively.

‘So you’re rolled in to give me the once-over and go back to the press with a verdict of mad, bad and dangerous, is that it?’

‘You are being rather dramatic, Mr Lee. But this is routine.’

David Massey rose from his seat and nodded at the door behind George. A prison officer, who’d been watching through the barred window, stepped inside.

‘I’m innocent,’ said George, rising and facing the burly officer.

‘You believe you are,’ said Massey. ‘In your head it is true. It is all true.
But I’m afraid I don’t share those beliefs. I’m sorry.’

He passed another nod of the head to the guard, who led George Lee aw
ay. After the door was closed Massey sat at the desk, poring over the notes in the file. He closed the file up, stowed it away in a drawer with lots of other closed files.

It was lunchtime. He retrieved a pack of sandwiches from his briefcase and took
a stroll in the hospital grounds, across the neatly-cropped grass to sit on a bench by the tall brick boundary wall. Though Lee’s case was peculiar, it was not so extraordinary for him to let it spoil his lunch. He nibbled at the sandwich, grimacing at the soggy cheese, when he was disturbed by a nurse strolling over the lawn towards him.

‘There’s someone in the office to see you, Doctor Massey,’ she said. As she turned, she said, irritated, ‘if you had your mobile turned on I could have rung you without having to search the entire clinic.’

He raised a brow at her stiffness. Nurses these days, he thought. Who do they think they are? ‘Can’t it wait? I’m having my lunch. Who is it anyway?’

‘A woman called Karen Brody
. She says it’s urgent.’

‘
I don’t know any Karen Brody. Get her to make an appointment,’ he said gruffly.

‘She said it’s
urgent
,’ she repeated.

‘
It always is,’ he groused, getting to his feet and brushing breadcrumbs from his trousers.

The woman
waiting for him in his office was smartly-dressed, in her late twenties. David Massey greeted her with a warmth he didn’t feel, shaking her small hand.

‘How can I help you, Miss Brody
?’ he asked.

‘Mrs Brody,’ she said.
‘I’m married.’ She went into her bag and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. ‘I brought this along for you. I thought of posting it, but I wanted to make sure you got it personally.’

‘What is it exactly?’ he said, faintly intrigued.

‘Oh, forgive me, I’d better explain. I’ve come over from Canada. My father died recently and I’m back in the country sorting out a few things on his behalf. Before they went to Canada my parents put a lot of stuff into storage and, well, you know what it’s like, tons of things to go through. My mother isn’t well enough to come over and take charge of all this so it’s down to me…’

He began to take the paper off the parcel. ‘All very interesting, but what has
any of that got to do with me?’

‘Since being over here I’ve caught the news, read a few newspapers, and I
happened to read about George Lee.’