Read Online FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell - Free Book Online
Authors: D. M. Mitchell
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hell,’ he said.
‘Did your mother ever find out any more about that woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘She hasn’t told you then?’
He shook his head. ‘What woman?’ he repeated.
‘Maybe it’s nothing, but your dad said there’d been a strange young woman hanging about near his house. Never during the day but just as it’s starting to get dark. He saw her the evening before he died, too.’
‘What did she want?’ George asked.
Gary shrugged, the smell of engine oil coming off him as he did so. ‘I dunno. Some kind of nutter, I guess. He never got to speak to her. She’d just run off when he went to speak.’
‘Have you seen her? ’
‘Maybe. Dunno. I caught a glimpse of someone hanging around the garage a couple of nights.’
‘A woman?’
‘Hell, I don’t know. It was too dark. I guess it looked like a woman, I can’t be certain. My eyes ain’t up to it these days. Look, it doesn’t matter. Like I said, probably some nutter up to no good. I told the cops, but useless swine that they are they said they’d look into it and never did. I’ve got good stock on the forecourt, I said. Sure, they said, and I could see the man was being sarcastic with his eyebrows. Clever bastards.’
George smiled. His Uncle Gary and the law had never been on good terms. ‘I’ll ask mum,’ he said.
Gary waved it all away. ‘Don’t make a big thing out of it. She’s got enough to worry about without some crazy bint stalking her. Just asking, that’s all. But if you see or hear of anybody strange hanging around let me know, eh? Your Uncle Robert is on the village Neighbourhood Watch committee and just loves all that vigilante kind of stuff. He wants to set up a Community Speedwatch thing, too. You know, those groups of no-good interfering nimbies in their hi-viz vests clocking you with speed cameras for the police? I told him straight, you do that and I’ll never talk to you again…’
‘Thanks for the car,’ said George, making a break for it before the man started on another of his rants.
‘Are you writing that stuff, still?’ his uncle asked as George made for the VW.
He nodded. ‘Y eah. You still reading the second one I gave you?’
He grinned. ‘Nearly finished it.’
It had been nearly six years since he gave it to him. He got into the car, the inside sweltering. The electric windows didn’t work so he cranked open the sunroof to let a little air in.
‘All this Sylvia Tredwin stuff…’ said Gary, leaning in at the window, his face deadpan.
‘Yeah?’
‘Just leave it alone, eh? Don’t go dragging things up. It’s a small place.’
A small place? What did that mean?
‘Yeah, no problem,’ George said. He waved goodbye to his uncle and drove off.
George Lee pulled up outside Adam Tredwin’s garden centre as he made his way home, the wheezy old engine ticking over noisily as he put a finger to his lips in thought. In his head the plot for a new novel was beginning to play out. This could be the one, he thought. This could be his breakthrough book. He’d not been this excited about a new story for years.
He drove the car into the garden centre’s car park, the white dust from the gravel rising in a ghostly cloud to hover briefly like a forlorn apparition in the still air.
8
An Old Friend
The heat of the day was already beginning to crank up. It drew off the scent of the many flowers that had been lined up in neat rows, looking like the colourful uniforms of Napoleonic soldiers arranged for battle, and wafted it over to him in intoxicating clouds. There was something pleasantly reassuring about the garden centre’s yard, an equal mixture of orderliness and the chaotic, with its array of lush greenery and terracotta plant pots and urns, its hanging baskets, and the battered galvanised watering can and wheelbarrow that had been recently used and abandoned in the middle of the brick path. George Lee wasn’t green fingered by any means – he could kill any houseplant
‘Did your mother ever find out any more about that woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘She hasn’t told you then?’
He shook his head. ‘What woman?’ he repeated.
‘Maybe it’s nothing, but your dad said there’d been a strange young woman hanging about near his house. Never during the day but just as it’s starting to get dark. He saw her the evening before he died, too.’
‘What did she want?’ George asked.
Gary shrugged, the smell of engine oil coming off him as he did so. ‘I dunno. Some kind of nutter, I guess. He never got to speak to her. She’d just run off when he went to speak.’
‘Have you seen her? ’
‘Maybe. Dunno. I caught a glimpse of someone hanging around the garage a couple of nights.’
‘A woman?’
‘Hell, I don’t know. It was too dark. I guess it looked like a woman, I can’t be certain. My eyes ain’t up to it these days. Look, it doesn’t matter. Like I said, probably some nutter up to no good. I told the cops, but useless swine that they are they said they’d look into it and never did. I’ve got good stock on the forecourt, I said. Sure, they said, and I could see the man was being sarcastic with his eyebrows. Clever bastards.’
George smiled. His Uncle Gary and the law had never been on good terms. ‘I’ll ask mum,’ he said.
Gary waved it all away. ‘Don’t make a big thing out of it. She’s got enough to worry about without some crazy bint stalking her. Just asking, that’s all. But if you see or hear of anybody strange hanging around let me know, eh? Your Uncle Robert is on the village Neighbourhood Watch committee and just loves all that vigilante kind of stuff. He wants to set up a Community Speedwatch thing, too. You know, those groups of no-good interfering nimbies in their hi-viz vests clocking you with speed cameras for the police? I told him straight, you do that and I’ll never talk to you again…’
‘Thanks for the car,’ said George, making a break for it before the man started on another of his rants.
‘Are you writing that stuff, still?’ his uncle asked as George made for the VW.
He nodded. ‘Y eah. You still reading the second one I gave you?’
He grinned. ‘Nearly finished it.’
It had been nearly six years since he gave it to him. He got into the car, the inside sweltering. The electric windows didn’t work so he cranked open the sunroof to let a little air in.
‘All this Sylvia Tredwin stuff…’ said Gary, leaning in at the window, his face deadpan.
‘Yeah?’
‘Just leave it alone, eh? Don’t go dragging things up. It’s a small place.’
A small place? What did that mean?
‘Yeah, no problem,’ George said. He waved goodbye to his uncle and drove off.
George Lee pulled up outside Adam Tredwin’s garden centre as he made his way home, the wheezy old engine ticking over noisily as he put a finger to his lips in thought. In his head the plot for a new novel was beginning to play out. This could be the one, he thought. This could be his breakthrough book. He’d not been this excited about a new story for years.
He drove the car into the garden centre’s car park, the white dust from the gravel rising in a ghostly cloud to hover briefly like a forlorn apparition in the still air.
8
An Old Friend
The heat of the day was already beginning to crank up. It drew off the scent of the many flowers that had been lined up in neat rows, looking like the colourful uniforms of Napoleonic soldiers arranged for battle, and wafted it over to him in intoxicating clouds. There was something pleasantly reassuring about the garden centre’s yard, an equal mixture of orderliness and the chaotic, with its array of lush greenery and terracotta plant pots and urns, its hanging baskets, and the battered galvanised watering can and wheelbarrow that had been recently used and abandoned in the middle of the brick path. George Lee wasn’t green fingered by any means – he could kill any houseplant
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