The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Mags realised Tam had asked her a question, and she tried to review what she had been talking about. Nope. No idea.

  "Cool," she said.

  Tam laughed. "You think he's cool? I agree."

  With no idea who she had just praised, Mags changed the subject, trying to be as casual as possible.

  "Oh, by the way, I saw a photograph of a house just like the one you drew - the one on the fridge."

  Tam stiffened and took another mouthful of hot chocolate. Mags ploughed on as if she hadn't noticed her daughter's wariness.

  "Uncle Kit's working in America. He saw it, took a photo."

  Mags took her phone out of her pocket and found what she was looking for. She had cropped the headline out of the picture. She held it out.

  "Terrible photo," said Tam. She looked at the phone for a few seconds, then handed it back. "Yes, it looks the same. That's weird, isn't it?"

  Mags maintained her casual manner, determined not to worry her. "I suppose," she said. "At least we know it's an actual place."

  "Is it in Boston?"

  Tam had visited her grandparents in Boston the previous summer, the only time she had been to America. It was only the third time she had met Bradley's parents.

  "No, honey, it's not. It's much further south."

  "So where did I see it?"

  Damn. That was the question Mags had hoped Tam might answer.

  "I don't know. At school, maybe? Have you been learning about America?"

  Tam shook her head.

  "Something on TV, maybe? What are you watching at the moment?"

  "Jeeves and Wooster." No surprise there. Would the Wodehouse obsession fade now that Tam was getting into music and watching YouTube videos? Mags felt a pang of sadness at the thought.

  "What about the YouTubers? Any of them American?"

  Tam smirked when Mags said YouTubers. "Yes, a couple. But their videos are inside, usually in their bedrooms." She picked up the long teaspoon and fished the last of the marshmallows out of the bottom of the cup. "Am I weird, Mum? I don't want to be weird. And I don't want to do those stupid pictures."

  "You're not weird, Tam. I'm guessing you saw a photo of that house somewhere. It might have been in the background of one of your YouTube videos, or in a book. Who knows? The fact that you don't remember where you saw it ties in with Dad's theory."

  "It does?"

  "Yes. Dad says the human brain never forgets anything. If you see something once, it's in your memory forever. But if it's not important, it gets filed in some dusty corner."

  "But my subconscious can find it there." So Tam was listening when Bradley talked science.

  "Exactly. You might have seen that house once, for a split second. When you draw, your conscious mind isn't doing it. It's your subconscious."

  "Mm." Tam stirred the bottom of her empty cup. "Sounds plenty weird to me."

  Mags silently agreed. Even as she had explained her theory to Tam, it had sounded shaky. She took a breath, trying to keep her tone as casual as possible.

  "Tam? Ever heard of the Bedroom Killer?"

  She watched Tam for her reaction. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. "Is it a movie?"

  "No. Never mind. Come on, I'll watch a Jeeves episode with you."

  Hours later, with Tam asleep, Mags put her hand in her dressing gown pocket, and brought out the latest drawing. She unfolded it on the coffee table.

  The detail was remarkable. Just like the first two pictures, this was a real place. The theory that they were copied from a photograph was compelling. Perhaps her bullshit theory was right. Tam might have seen something on the internet, in the sidebar on YouTube, perhaps. An image that her conscious mind had absorbed, then reproduced later.

  In which case, this third image must be somewhere online. It wasn't the scene of one of the Bedroom Killer's murders, so she must have seen it somewhere else.

  She opened the laptop. There was a new email. She had put a google alert on the words Bedroom Killer, and bedroom murders. There had been thirty-seven new results since that afternoon. She clicked on the top one.

  BEDROOM KILLER'S BODY COUNT REACHES DOUBLE FIGURES.

  The Bedroom Killer had struck for the fifth time. The article detailed his modus operandi with lascivious attention to detail. He had garrotted his victims before arranging their corpses in bed as if they were sleeping.

  There was a picture. A trailer park in Georgia. Not a caravan park in England.

  She dragged her eyes away from the screen to confirm what she already knew. The picture Tam had drawn was of the trailer where Bill Crawston and Jeanette Franchi had been murdered, their bodies found tucked up in bed.

  Her daughter was drawing detailed pictures of murder scenes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mags made a pot of tea and sat in the glass box at the back of her house, looking out into the garden.

  The laptop was open on the kitchen table next to her, but she was sick of looking at it. Sick of trying to work out what was going on. For two days now, her anxiety had coiled around the top of her spine, preparing itself to squeeze into her mind and whisper its poison. If she let it have its way, she wouldn't be able to help Tam. She wouldn't be able to do anything except crawl to the settee and wait it out. That wasn't going to happen.

  She pulled a chair up to the corner cabinet, stretching up to the top shelf and retrieving a blister-strip of pills. There were nine antidepressants left. Three days' worth. Her thumbnail punctured the foil. Five years of these pills, then another three trying to get off them. Ria's talking therapy had paid off, leaving Mags drug-free with a variety of techniques to deal with her anxiety.

  It was only when her left calf cramped that Mags realised she was still standing on the chair. She put the pills back and closed the cupboard door. No. She could get through this without them. Tam needed her. She could do it.

  The US road map was in a kitchen drawer. Mags remembered the nights she and Bradley had spent planning a route up the west coast, from San Diego to Vancouver Island. When Mags had fallen pregnant, they'd postponed it until the twins would be old enough to come. Then Clara had died. The highlighted route on the map was all that remained of the planned trip. Mags drew circles around locations of murders attributed to the Bedroom Killer. There were five in all. The last three were all within a hundred and fifty miles of each other.

  Mags went upstairs and pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, brushing a cloud of dust from the top.

  Tam had shown no sign of recognition at all when she'd mentioned the Bedroom Killer. No sign at all.

  If she was going find out why her daughter had an unconscious obsession with a serial killer, she would start by seeing the murder scenes for herself.

  "Of course we'll have her. She's our favourite niece. Right, David?" David looked up from the metal figurine he was painting. Forced to guess, Mags had called it a troll, but David had snorted in mock-outrage, and insisted it was obvious the tiny monster was an orc. He had given this orc a brown jacket, black trousers, a white face with yellow eyes, and bright red horns. This was David's way of relaxing. He put the brush down and grinned.

  "I'll be honest with you, Mags. I always thought I hated kids. Two reasons why I changed my mind. The first was your twin brother."

  Kit smirked.

  "He has decided to behave like a fifteen-year-old for the rest of his life. What might have been irritating in some, is strangely endearing in him."

  Kit acknowledged the compliment by blowing a kiss.

  "And then there's Tam. How on earth an American contributed anything towards a kid capable of speaking like Bertie Wooster is anybody's guess. I imagine she must have got ninety-eight percent of your DNA."

  "Oh no," contradicted Kit. "Tam is far too good-looking for that. She got plenty of those gorgeous Yank genes."

  "Whatever. She's a pleasure to be around, and we'd be delighted to have her as a house guest for as long as you'd like."

  Mags forced a smile. "Thank
you. It's only five days. I really appreciate it. I'll bring her over after school."

  At the door, Kit caught up with her and watched her put her shoes on. He folded his arms.

  "What?" she said.

  "You're flying to Boston to surprise Bradley," he said.

  "That's right."

  "You. Margaret Eileen Thompson."

  "Barkworth."

  "Don't change the subject. You've never been spontaneous in your life."

  "Yes I have."

  "Name one occasion. Ever."

  She knew this was an argument she couldn't win.

  "I'll be late picking up Tam."

  "Ha!" Kit was triumphant. "It's not even Bradley's birthday. Or your anniversary. Now stop bullshitting and tell me what's going on."

  She avoided looking at him, but Kit put a hand on her arm. The facade she'd kept in place since she'd arrived crumbled.

  "Twin power!" crowed Kit, then stopped. "Shit. What's wrong, Mags. He's not cheating on you, is he?"

  "No, he bloody isn't. It's... it's nothing."

  "It's not bloody nothing, Sis. Come on. No secrets."

  There had never been secrets between them. The idea seemed ridiculous. But Mags knew she couldn't share this. She didn't even know what this was, yet. She only knew she had to get out there, see it for herself, try to find out what the hell was going on. Was some murderous sicko posting pics of his victim's homes? Had Tam found some horrible dark web page? That was hard to believe, but it was even less conceivable that Tam would lie to her face. So what did that leave?

  She shook her head. "No secrets, Kit. But you will have to trust me. I'm not ready to talk about this yet. Give me these few days. We'll talk when I get back."

  Kit hid the look of betrayal as fast as it appeared, but Mags saw it. It was the first time she had held something back from her twin brother, ever.

  He hugged her. "Be careful."

  "I will."

  "And Sis?"

  She looked back at him as she opened the door.

  "Give Bradley one from me, will you?"

  She called Bradley from the airport.

  "Atlanta? What the hell's in Atlanta? And why don't you wait until we can go together?"

  Ticket bought, checked in, and sitting in the departure lounge, Mags felt as if Bradley was speaking to her from a million miles away. She sipped an orange juice.

  The flight would see her in Atlanta by five in the evening, local time.

  "Bradley, we never go anywhere together. Without Tam, I mean. And I never, ever, go anywhere on my own. I'm coming to see my husband, okay? When I was browsing flights, I saw a great deal for Atlanta. I loved Gone With The Wind when I was growing up."

  "You never mentioned it." He sounded pissed off. The moment of reconciliation and passion on the kitchen floor seemed like years ago.

  "I don't tell you everything, you know." Like the fact that our daughter is drawing pictures of murder scenes in America.

  "Yeah. So it would seem. Look, Mags, it's not that I don't want you to come."

  "Are you sure? Because that's how it sounds."

  His voice became softer. Mags had the unsettling thought that Bradley was playing a part, that he was uninvolved with what he was saying. He knew what a loving husband who was working hard would say, and he knew the tone of voice he should adopt to say it.

  "Hey, I'm sorry, Mags, I'm sorry. You took me by surprise, is all. It's so unlike you."

  Mags couldn't argue that point.

  "The research project we're involved with at the moment - it's at a critical stage. I'm working fourteen-hour days, honey. It's just bad timing, plain and simple."

  "Yes, that's the problem with acting on an impulse, I guess. But I'll take what I can get of your time. Your mother can show me around Boston while you and Todd change the world in your lab."

  "Yeah, well, maybe."

  "Anyway, I'll be a few days in Atlanta before coming up to you. Hey, if it's such a bad idea, I could always fly straight home."

  His hesitation was tiny, but it was there. "No. No. I'd love to see you. Can't wait. Call me from your hotel."

  "I will. The flight's boarding. Got to go."

  Bradley had recovered his poise. "I was wrong. It's good. I'm glad you're doing this. I thought we were past surprising each other. It's good we still can, right?"

  Mags thought of all the lies she'd just fed him.

  "I'll call you when I arrive."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Atlanta welcomed her with a tropical-style thunderstorm during the ride from the airport to the hotel. Even the short walk from the terminal building to the taxi rank had made Mags sweat. From the cool of the cab, she watched great sheets of water pound the wide streets, obscuring her view. Where the water hit the hot blacktop, clouds of steam rose. It all added to the dream-like state of mind brought on by long haul travel. She was glad of this as she stared through the rain-spattered glass. Going over and over the few facts she knew about Tam's drawings wasn't getting her any closer to finding out what was really happening.

  The first ten minutes of the drive could have been on the outskirts of any American city, but when they reached downtown Atlanta, the Diet Coke billboards gave way to trees. Gleaming skyscrapers flashed behind dripping branches. Mags could have sworn she caught sight of a mediaeval-looking church through the rain.

  She paid the driver when they arrived at the hotel. A doorman trotted down the steps from the big glass and chrome doors and held an umbrella over her as a concierge lifted her luggage from the cab. In the lobby, she checked in and followed the concierge up to her room.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mags fought the temptation to fall backwards and doze on the clean sheets. Instead, she picked up the phone. It was a short call. Bradley was at work, and she was tired. She wanted to call Tam, but it was far too late in London.

  The room was generously proportioned, with two enormous beds. She had forgotten that American hotels often had two double beds in them. She wondered why? Perhaps Americans were more adventurous than she gave them credit for. Perhaps it was the opposite. Behind closed doors, did couples demand one enormous bed each? She didn't know.

  She stared at the city through the picture window. The rain had eased, leaving silver streaks on the glass. The trailer park Tam had drawn was near the city limits. Her thoughts kept returning to the picture, like a child picking at a scab.

  It was too early to sleep. She needed to keep herself awake until at least nine or ten o'clock local time, or she would wake up in the middle of the night. But she couldn't face going outside, having to make conversation. Not yet.

  Mags scrolled through the menu on the huge flat-screen TV hanging on the wall, selecting a loud, violent movie she would never normally watch. She pulled an old-fashioned, high-backed wooden chair from the desk in the corner and positioned it in front of the screen, rather than sitting on the bed. Two hours later, she was still awake, but she was struggling. All she could understand about the movie was that it involved giant robots speaking in voices so deep that her earrings rattled on the desk. She stood up and paced for a few minutes, then ordered room service. Twenty minutes later, a seafood salad and a large glass of bourbon arrived. She ate the salad, ordered a wake up call for 7am, showered, crawled into bed and swallowed a sleeping pill with the bourbon.

  "What the hell am I doing here?" she said out loud.

  "You a reporter?"

  A rosary hung from the rear view mirror. Most cab drivers with religious accoutrements in their vehicles drove with a disregard for traffic laws and speed restrictions that suggested reliance on supernatural help. Ahmed—as his ID card revealed him to be—drove with the exaggerated caution of an octogenarian retaking his driving test.

  "Yes," Mags answered, surprising herself. She didn't have a better explanation for why she was heading to the scene of a recent murder. And it was a half-truth. She’d get back to writing again one day. When all this was over. "That's right. A reporter."


  Ahmed coughed in a way that suggested disapproval. "The Brits care about what's happening in Atlanta?"

  "Oh, well, I'm not a normal reporter. I don't work for a newspaper. I mean, I do sometimes." Mags remembered how hard it was to prevent a small white lie turning into a complicated mess. "I write for a psychology magazine. That's what I'm working on now. A feature about the psychology of a killer."

  This seemed to mollify Ahmed. "Oh," he was nodding now "that's interesting. We have to understand how these people think, if we going to stop this kind of thing happening."

  "Yes, that's right." The city centre had given way to suburban neighbourhoods, and these were thinning out. They were close to the airport. The wet streets had steamed dry, and—according to the weather report that morning—temperatures would peak at thirty-one degrees. She had picked out her lightest blouse and a pair of linen trousers.

  "You see, most of the newspaper reports, they say he's a monster," said Ahmed. "But that's wrong, I think. Once you call someone evil, or say they are a monster, you are not learning what made them that way. Nothing comes from nothing, right? We have to at least try to understand what kind of hell someone has gone through to turn them into a murderer." He touched the crucifix on the rosary. "And we have to forgive them."

  He brought the cab to a halt. "The trailer park is just around the corner. I don't want to drop you right outside. Folks are still hurting, and they've had to deal with a lot of rubberneckers. They are not very neighbourly towards strangers at the moment, ma'am, if you get my drift. You want my advice?"