FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) (18 page)

The sat nav led him to a block of flats, the kind they threw up in the 1960s and the kind that were mostly being condemned and pulled down. It wasn’t exactly an up-and-coming area, thought George Lee as he took the stairs, choosing to avoid the dodgy-looking
lift that stank to high heaven of piss. Kids wearing hoodies were hanging around the stairwell, a mixture of ages from ten-year-olds to teenagers, but all regarded him and his intentions through suspicious eyes that looked far too old and worldly-wise for their years. Birmingham was the country’s second largest city, and he guessed it had its fair share of troubles and social problems to match that statistic. Areas of deprivation like this one that needed a ton of money ploughing into it. And yet the trainers these kids wore, he thought, looked expensive enough. He stopped and asked one of the kids which floor the address was on.

‘Fuck off,’ said the kid.

So he did. The bastards would mug him as soon as look at him, he thought, thinking about the irony of it. He wrote about such tenement blocks in his novels, painted the people as black as hell, using the places as social sinkholes from which to dredge his sick ideas, but he wouldn’t ordinarily be caught dead in such places, not in real life. And it wasn’t the kind of place he’d associate with his father, either. The man born and raised in the country, who never ventured far from home till the day he died, and who spent most of his working life in a cosy office job in a small Somerset market town. He studied the paper again. It was definitely his father’s handwriting, and this was the address he’d scrawled beneath the one he’d roughly scribbled out.

He trod the walkway, looking at the door numbers
as he went, glancing down from the third floor to the courtyard below. Someone was tinkering with a car, the radio blasting out. He frowned. Strangely, it was Classic FM, not what he’d expect. Finally he came to a scuffed and scarred red-painted door. He pressed the doorbell, hearing the distant chimes. No one answered, so he knocked loudly on the door, and when this didn’t elicit a response he went to the window and tried to peer inside. It looked to be in darkness.

‘There’s nobody living there,’ a woman said as she came up the walkway dragging a trolley-bag crammed with groceries. The wheels squeaked in protest as she paused by a door, taking a key out of her coat pocket.

She looked to be quite elderly, George thought, and hardly strong enough to walk let alone go out shopping. Her long, thin face watched him carefully.

‘I’m trying to find out who lived here,’ he said. ‘Did you know them?’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Depends who’s asking. You from the council?’

He smiled disarmingly. ‘No, not at all.
’

‘This used to be a council house, before Maggie sold them all off. It’s rented now. Well, it would be if there was
anyone in it. After the last tenant and his sister left a few months ago the landlord let it out to foreign workers. They said there were ten men sleeping in one room. The police busted the landlord over drugs or something, and kicked the workers out. Most of ‘em were here illegally anyhow. But that’s the way it is nowadays. Shame Adam and his sister had to leave. He was a nice man, and you don’t get nice men these days. No offence meant,’ she said, looking George up and down.

‘None taken. Did you say Adam? Was his name Adam Tredwin?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I just knew him as Adam. Youngish – well, youngish compared to me – your age maybe. Nice looking. Helped me with my bags sometimes and always said hello. That’s getting rare in people. Used to be we always spoke to our neighbours, but I guess that’s the way it is, too.’

George was unprepared for the news. What the hell was his father doing sending money to Adam Tredwin? And is this where the matured insurance policy proceeds went, too? He double-checked the piece of paper, unsure what he expected to find. Maybe it wasn’t his father’s handwriting; maybe the address had nothing to do with the bank statements.
Maybe he was getting this all wrong.

‘He had a sister, you say, this Adam?’ he asked.

‘Eva, he called her, but I never clapped eyes on her, not out in the street, not once in the six years they lived here. Saw her once or twice through the window as I passed, but that was all. She kept herself to herself. They both did. I remember when he said he was leaving to go back home to Somerset. I was gutted. Some of the people round here would cut your throat for a MacDonald’s Happy Meal. You don’t often get nice normal people like Adam as neighbours.’

‘Did he speak about his mother?’

‘I’ve got to get this shopping inside,’ she said. ‘I’ve got butter that’s melting.’

‘This is important,’ he said. ‘Did he mention his mother at all, say where she was living, that kind of thing?’

‘We only spoke occasionally, talked about the weather, the footy results. It’s not like I knew him all that well. But he did mention his mum a couple of times, when I asked where he came from, because his accent was so different it stuck out like a sore thumb. He said he originally came from down south, said his mother was living on the other side of the city. He said he was going to visit her when I saw him coming out of the flat one day, not long before he left this place. Said she’d taken ill or something. What’s wrong with her, I asked? Oh, nothing much, just getting old, he tells me, and we say goodbye. That’s about the size of it. Got to go now.’ She opened the door and hauled the trolley-bag over the step.

‘Adam told me his mother lived in
Manchester, not in Birmingham.’

‘Only telling you what I know. She might have moved to
Manchester in the last few months. None of my business.’

‘Does this address mean anything to you?’ he said quickly, pushing the piece of paper at her before she shut the door on him. He pointed to the address that his father had scribbled out.

She regarded it in minute detail before shaking her head. ‘It’s on the other side of the city, I think.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe that’s where he said his mother could be living, who knows? Are you sure you’re not from the council?’

George thanked her and made his way to the car. He sat inside it for a few minutes gathering his thoughts. What the hell was going on? The revelations had knocked the wind out of his sails.
Why had his father maintained some kind of contact with Adam all this time? His mother obviously oblivious to the contact. Maybe he should confront Adam over it. Or maybe he should check out the other address while he was in Birmingham.

Go straight to the horse’s mouth,
said Cameron.
Surely Sylvia is the one who’ll know all the answers. You’ve got her address, for Heaven’s sake! What are you waiting for?

‘Go to hell, Cameron,’ he said, punching the postcode into his phone. He was half an hour away from the address. ‘Quit bothering me.’
The man was getting all talkative again. He’d been quiet for a long time.

Fine! You need me, don’t ever forget that. You and me, we’re inseparable. I gave you all you’ve got. You can’t talk to me like that, you little runt.

‘I’ll talk to you however I like, Cameron,’ George said through gritted teeth. He gunned the engine.

Without me you’re nothing, George. You were nothing before you found me, and you’ll be nothing after I’m gone.

‘It’s no use threatening me, Cameron.’

No one else cares about you, George. No one ever did,
neither your mother nor your father or that bitch of a sister of yours. You have no friends without me. I’m all you’ve got. And I
am
your writing. If I leave you then your writing will leave with me, you useless pile of crap! What’s gotten into you? We used to be such a good team.

‘You’re bad for me, Cameron. You’ve turned me into
something I don’t want to be. I don’t like me when I’m with you.’

Tough. Get used to it.

Then there was silence in his head.

‘Cameron?’ he ventured. There was no reply. ‘Cameron, are you there? Look, I was only kidding…’

He thumped the steering wheel.

The house stood in sharp contrast to the block of flats. It was a large detached house
in a quiet little cul-de-sac, neat gardens, trimmed hedges and trees, nice motors parked on the driveways. So this is where Sylvia Tredwin ended up, he thought, getting out of the car and setting off through the gate and down a crazy-paving garden path, feeling the sweat gluing his shirt to his back. And it wasn’t just the heat of the sunshine that was causing it; he felt uncharacteristically nervous about confronting Sylvia Tredwin. It felt like coming face to face with a ghost, a ghost from his past. It was bad enough seeing Adam for the first time, but meeting Sylvia…? How would he take that?

He knocked on the door and waited, hearing movement in the hall, seeing a shadow at the mottled glass window.

How should he greet her? What was he going to say? Would she allow him in, want to hear questions about that tragic time?

The woman at the door, smiling warmly, was not Sylvia Tredwin. She was young – in her twenties at the most. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was looking for someone,’ he said. ‘I was given this address.’ He produced the piece of paper. ‘I’m sure it’s the right one.’

‘That’s the right address alright,’ she said, nodding. ‘Who were you looking for?’

‘Someone called Sylvia Tredwin,’ he said. ‘I think she used to live here. Do you know her?’

The woman’s face fell, the smile washed away in an instant. She sighed. ‘I don’t know anything about that woman,’ she said. She looked like she was about to close the door.

‘Wait a second, do you know where I can find her?’ He instinctively put his foot in the door crack, stopping it from shutting.

‘Take your foot away,’ she demanded firmly.

‘Sorry!’ he said, alarmed at his own audacity.

Keep your foot there, you fool, said Cameron.

George struggled with his intentions, his foot wanting to pull away, but something was keeping it there.

‘Are you a reporter?’ the woman demanded.

‘No!’ George said.

‘Every now and again the local papers decide to bother us. We’re fed up of it. I wish we’d never bought this bloody house. Take your foot away or I’ll call the police.’

He did as he was told and she slammed the door shut.

Christ, thi
s was getting weird, he thought, standing there on the path wondering what he should do.

Knock at the bloody door, said Cameron. You’re onto something. Don’t be such a damned wimp, man!

George knocked again. This time a man appeared at the door and shoved out a meaty arm. A hand pushed George in the chest and he fell backwards. ‘Are you bothering my wife?’ he snarled. ‘Get the fuck out of here. What is it with you guys?’

‘I’m not one of those guys – whoever those guys are,’ he defended. ‘I just want to find out about Sylvia Tredwin.’

‘Which paper do you work for? I’m going to call the bloody editor. I thought we’d heard the last of this thing ages ago. What’s your problem? No news today, got to start digging into the past to drag things up?’ He reached into his pocket and took out his mobile. ‘I’m going to call the police if you don’t get your arse out of here.’

‘There really is no need…’ said George.

Don’t let him push you around, said Cameron. Hit the guy.

‘What?’ said George.

‘I said get your arse out of here!’ the man retorted.

George shook his head. ‘Not you!’ he said.

Belt him – don’t let anyone push you around,
Cameron insisted.

‘I can’t!’ he replied.

The man brought the phone to his ear. ‘Then you’ve had your warning. I’m calling the police.’

George grabbed the phone from the man and tossed it to the ground, where he stamped on it. He looked at what he’d done, horrified.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry!’ he said.

That’s more like it,
said Cameron

‘I didn’t mean…’

But the man wasn’t listening. He launched himself at George and beat him to the ground. The two were rolling around in the dust, fists flailing, the man’s wife screaming for them to stop fighting.

‘
You’re getting a warning, and think yourself lucky Mr Stevens doesn’t want to press charges,’ said the police officer.

George Lee sat on the hard wooden chair feeling very sorry for himself. He had a tissue to his bloodied eye, which was starting to swell up like a blue balloon. His jaw ached from where a fist had made contact, and he was afraid one of his teeth might be loose when he explored it with his tongue.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Mr Stevens accepts partial responsibility,’ said the officer, asking George to come over to the desk and sign a form.
He gave him a pen, which George grasped in a shaking hand. ‘He said he’s not normally such a bad-tempered man, but that his wife and him have got sick of reporters coming round to their house every now and again. He just blew.’