FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell Read Free Book Online

sail away like slender green canoes, he was on the verge of avoiding him and taking a different route.
    But something drew him to the lonely young boy’s side.
    ‘Hi, Adam,’ said George, shuffling in that expressive, self-conscious way some eight-year-old boys have about them.
    Adam Tredwin looked up from his reverie, his eyes s uddenly fearful. He looked around to see if George had brought trouble with him. The boys could be mean within the confines of school, but if they caught Adam outside they could be doubly so. That’s why he rarely went out.
    ‘What do you want?’ said Adam, satisfied George was alone. He was slightly older than George, but not by much. Yet he appeared far older to George, in the way he looked at you, his prolonged thoughtful silences filled with meaning.
    ‘Don’t want anything ,’ said George. He tentatively went to sit by Adam’s side, a discreet distance away. He plucked up blades of grass and tossed one or two into the stream. Adam watched his every move carefully. ‘What are you doing?’ George asked.
    Adam Tredwin regarded the crushed blades of grass in his delicate palm, at the green smudges. ‘This is the grass’s blood,’ he said quietly, holding up his palm for George to see.
    George hastily looked at his own hand to see if there was any green blood on them. There wasn’t. ‘Is it?’ he said.
    ‘Sure, everything bleeds. Even plants.’
    George nodded. It sounded profound to him, even then. But profundity in eight-year-olds is either accidental or fleeting, and George forgot the grass’s blood and smiled. ‘I’ll bet my boats can beat yours,’ he said, holding up a spiky sliver of grass.
    ‘I’ll bet it can’t,’ said Adam.
    And George Lee came close to the boy’s side and they raced grass stems in the clear, gurgling stream. He saw a lot more of Adam Tredwin that summer, secretly, because he didn’t want his friends at school to know. Then his mother found out and banned him from ever seeing Adam again, sending him to his room as punishment. He complained bitterly. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he defended. Adam is a nice boy!
    When his father got home he gave George a severe beating, dragging down his trousers and thrashing his bare backside with a slipper till it burnt a fiery red.
    A few weeks later Adam Tredwin and his entire family left the village of Petheram never to be seen or heard of again. Not till six months ago when the garden centre was opened up by Adam Tredwin.
    ‘Why’d you ban me from playing with Adam Tredwin?’ George Lee asked bluntly. He stared at his mother. She avoided looking at him.
    ‘I’m tired, George,’ she replied. ‘That was a long time ago. Leave it be. None of that matters now.’
    ‘My dad gave me a thrashing for playing with Adam,’ he said. ‘Remember?’
    She blinked slowly. ‘No. You’re imagining it. He’d never do that. Perhaps it was for something else. You were always getting into trouble.’
    ‘It was for playing with Adam,’ he persisted. Long time ago or no, the memory still caused George Lee anxiety. It was as relevant to him now as all those years ago.
    ‘Your father was a good man, George. A kind man. If he beat you it was for your own good.’
    ‘My own good?’ he said, scoffing. ‘If I ever had a kid I wouldn’t take a slipper to his backside, no matter what he did.’
    ‘Times were different back then. Parenting has changed so much.’
    ‘Bollocks,’ he said, then, of course, regretted it.
    ‘But it appears you shall never be having children of your own, will you George? It is easy to be critical of the dead and their shortcomings, when the living have plenty of their own to contend with, do they not?’ Her eyes met his. They were cold, unblinking. ‘My husband, your father, is dead. Must we have this selfishness from you again, especially at this sad time?’
    Like a berated kid he slumped in his chair, studying his dusty shoes. His dad used to slap him around the head for having