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

to the village after all these years, Adam?’ asked Robert.
    ‘Why shouldn’t I ?’ he returned, as if the question were loaded.
    Robert shrugged. ‘Guess you don’t need a reason. But something generally makes people want to come back. Nostalgia, maybe.’
    Adam eyed him. ‘Nostalgia? I have nothing to be nostalgic about. You know that.’
    Robert nodded slowly. ‘Just asking. Sorry if I touched a nerve…’
     
     
    ‘Is that Adam Tredwin?’ said Christian Phelps as he served Gary Cowper his drinks, nodding in the man’s direction.
    Gary Cowper grunted. ‘Yeah, that ’s him. I fancied a nice night out, taking a few jars, watching a band, you know. But now George goes and invites a Tredwin along. That’s put a dampener on my entire evening.’
    Phelps grinned. ‘Don’t be such a bloody misery, Gary. What have you got against him?’
    ‘Got nothing against him. But he’s a Tredwin .’
    ‘So? That was a long time ago. That was his mother.’
    ‘We both know what a batty woman she was,’ Gary said. ‘They make me feel ill, being with people like that. People who aren’t quite right in the head.’
    ‘That’s not very nice, Gary,’ Phelps said. ‘Anyhow, maybe it’s best to give him some leeway, for the sake of a quiet life, huh? We don’t want things being dragged up, do we?’
    Gary Cowper did what he did best and shrugged. He could shrug for England, thought Phelps. ‘Yeah, sure. But you ain’t the one having to sit with him. Every time I look at him I see Sylvia…’
    Phelps took money from Gary and gave him change. ‘He won’t be in Petheram long,’ he said quietly.
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘I know so,’ he said.
    ‘Still, you don’t have to sit with him…’ he returned and clutched the four glasses in his large hands and left the bar.
    Christian Phelps watched Gary’s broad back. Looked across the room at Robert and George. Adam Tredwin had his back to him. Even from here he looked like his mother – same slim build, same colour hair except cropped short. It made him feel uneasy too. He shook his head of thoughts and asked the barmaid to take over while he went to speak to the band, take them a few drinks on the house.
     
    Gary came back with the drinks and set them down. He avoided eye contact with Adam and sat down, arms folded and staring at the empty stage.
    ‘Garage doing OK, Mr Cowper?’ Adam asked Gary.
    ‘Sure it’s doing OK,’ he replied. ‘How are the pansies selling?’
    George and Robert exchanged glances.
    ‘I hear there are a lot of people hitting deer again this year,’ Adam continued. ‘Denting car wings.’
    Robert stared at Adam. ‘You get that,’ he said . ‘Some years there are more than others roaming over the roads. Like badgers. And at certain times they just seem to have a death wish. We’ve had a few cars in recently for repair that have hit animals, that not so, Gary?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Loads. We also get a lot of busted clutches. What of it?’
    ‘They can do some real damage, deers,’ Adam said quietly.
    ‘I came out to escape the garage, not talk about it,’ said Gary.
    ‘You should retire,’ said George, ‘if you hate it so much. You’re way past retirement age.’
    ‘Who said I hated it? I hate being quizzed about it, that’s all.’
    ‘I wasn’t quizzing you…’ said Adam.
    ‘Sure sounded like it.’
    ‘Give it a rest, Gary,’ said Robert. ‘ You’re already drunk and the man’s only making friendly conversation.’
    ‘I didn’t know such a simple question would bother you that much,’ said Adam.
    Gary Cowper rolled his eyes. ‘It doesn’t bother me! Just leave it be, huh? Let a man have his drink in quiet. I don’t need to go on about busted car wings.’
    The band came back on stage and the stilted conversation was brought to a thankful close. George Lee sighed in relief, surprised at his uncle’s reaction. The Mud-Puddle Frogs cranked up the music and for a while George forgot the bad start