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

by D. M. Mitchell

  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 shoplifting 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 taken 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 away. 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 wante
d 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.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I read an article about him that mentioned a woman. Sylvia Tredwin? Well, it just so happens that I was going through some things in the lock-up when I came across a load of old audio tapes…’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Audio tapes?’

  ‘My grandfather was a doctor, a psychologist. He used to hypnotise people sometimes.’

  ‘Was his name Arthur Talbot?’ said Massey.

  ‘That’s right. How can you know that?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘Your father, William Talbot, was asked by the police if George Lee had ever received tapes from him. He denied having sent anything. Even denied their existence. Said they’d been destroyed. Are these…?’

  She nodded quickly. ‘My father must have been mistaken, for the tapes were there all along. I came across a lot of my grandfather’s old cassette audio tapes of some of his hypnosis sessions with clients. And I noticed these two.’ She pointed to the ones that Massey had revealed beneath the wrapping paper. ‘They’re the originals, see?’ It had Sylvia Tredwin written on the cardboard inserts. ‘It just struck me that it had to be the same Sylvia Tredwin. With interest in George Lee’s case making the papers and there being some doubts expressed over his guilt, I thought you’d best have them. I don’t know what’s on them exactly, as I haven’t got an old tape player to play them on, but I thought, as they’d been mentioned in the papers, and that you were in charge of George Lee’s case notes, I’d give them to you. They may be useful.’

  David Massey stared at the two audio cassettes. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said. ‘The originals, you say?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, I have to be off now. All manner of things to sort out and so little time to do it in.’ She turned to head for the office door. ‘I hope they prove useful.’

  Massey gave a slow nod. ‘Thank you for spending the time travelling here to give me these.’

  ‘You will listen to them, won’t you? If they’re of no interest can I rely on you to destroy them for me? They’re of no use to anyone else now.’

  ‘I will listen to them,’ he assured. ‘I believe I can locate an old tape machine. There’s bound to be one here somewhere.’

  Karen Brody smiled, waved and dashed away.

  Massey studied the audio cassettes, stepping out of his office and calling out to his secretary, ‘Do we have anything we can play these things on?’ flagging one of the tapes.

  ‘Somewhere,’ she said, briefly glancing at the cassette.

  ‘Can you get it for me, please?’

  ‘What, right now? I’m very busy…’

  ‘Yes, right now, please,’ he said.

  She returned some time later with a battered old silver portable tape and CD player. ‘It’s a bit dusty,’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, waving her away and waiting till she closed the door.

  He plugged in the machine, placed the tape into the compartment and hit play.

  Nothing, just tape hiss.

  He pulled open a drawer and took out a file of case notes, dismissing the tape and setting about delving into another client’s twisted head. He looked up at the machine, frustrated that there appeared to be nothing on it, and was about to stab out a finger to hit the stop button when a reedy voice issued from the speakers.

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

  ‘I’m ready, Doctor Talbot…’

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for purchasing ‘FLINDER’S FIELD’.

  If you enjoyed this novel, I would be grateful if you could take the time to let other people know and put a review on Amazon. I try to read them all and take every review very seriously. As readers your thoughts and insights are extremely valuable.

  Yours,

  Daniel M. Mitchell

  If you enjoyed ‘Flinder’s Field’, I think you’ll like my novel ‘Mouse’.

  It’s the summer of 1976 and Vince Moody is a quiet and unassuming projectionist at the run-down Empire cinema in the small town of Langbridge in the middle of the Somerset Levels.

  His life is a drudge, and he’s going nowhere; the only female attention he gets is a stream of cruel jokes and jibes from the Empire’s cleaners, and especially from the obnoxious Monica Andrews. But his life is about to change dramatically when he sees and falls secretly in love with Laura Leach.

  Laura lives all alone in an 18th Century folly known as Devereux Towers; a brooding old building sitting alone in its field a few miles from Langbridge. Recently returned to the area to bury her father and having inherited Devereux Towers, Laura is something of a recluse. The local children call Laura the ‘Witch of Devereux Towers’; some people call her ‘damaged goods’. She too is lonely and unassuming, a desperately troubled woman haunted by her dark, secret past. Haunted by what lies behind the locked, blue-painted door in Devereux Towers…

  Then Laura Leach meets Casper Younge. He’s handsome, well-spoken, gentle and loving, and Laura falls head-over-heels in love with him. Vince Moody is devastated to have lost the woman of his dreams, but he soon discovers that Casper Younge is not all that he appears. He’s blackmailing the Empire’s manager, Martin Caldwell, for one thing; and who is the attractive woman Vince sees Casper meeting in Glastonbury? Martin Caldwell is having serious troubles of his own – his affair with Monica Andrews the cleaner has gone horribly wrong. His world is falling apart, and the last thing he wants is a visit from Casper Younge dredging up a past he thought he’d left behind.

  Then two people go missing, presumed dead.

  Soon, everyone is caught up in a dangerous spiral of events that draws them inexorably into a world of jealousy, deceit, passion, blackmail and murder, where the hunter becomes the hunted, the mice turn on the cats.

  Set against the impressive yet claustrophobic landscape of the Somerset Levels, Mouse is a chilling exploration of the corrupt depths people will sink to in the name of revenge, power, greed and love and is D. M. Mitchell at his imaginative best.

  By D. M. Mitchell

  Max

  Silent

  Mouse

  Blackdown

  The Soul Fixer

  Flinder’s Field

  The Domino Boys

  The King of Terrors

  The House of the Wicked

  The Woman from the Blue Lias

  Pressure Cooker

  The First D. M. Mitchell Thriller Omnibus

  The Second D. M. Mitchell Thriller Omnibus

  The D.M. Mitchell Supernatural Double Bill

  Please check the D.M. Mitchell Author Page at Amazon for details of all his latest releases