"Yes. Please."
"If anyone asks you, don't tell them what you told me. They just lost someone, murdered right next door to them. These folk won't want to hear how a horrible childhood made him a killer. They want him dead."
Mags paid him and got out. "Thank you," she called as Ahmed drove away, his hand waving from the window.
She followed his directions. This part of the city was rundown, some shops boarded up, others selling cheap brands. When she rounded the corner, she stopped. The trailer park began when the line of shops ended, about thirty yards further on her left. A knot of people stood near the bright yellow police tape. She took a few deep breaths, composed herself, and walked on.
As she got closer to the police tape, a bead of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades and into the small of her back. It wasn't just just the humidity. She had never been much of a liar and keeping up the pretence of being a reporter for two minutes on a cab ride was different thing to maintaining it for people whose neighbours had been murdered.
Ten yards away, a burly cop, his arms crossed, was protecting the perimeter of the crime scene.
She couldn't do this. What was she going to say? "Hello, someone might be showing photographs of the murder scenes to my eleven-year-old daughter in North London. Afterwards, she goes into a trance and produces a brilliant drawing of the scene, using an artistic talent she never displayed before."
They'd lock her up. In a cell, or—more likely—a psychiatric institution.
Mags walked away, then stopped again. This was ridiculous. She had travelled thousands of miles to see this for herself. She could hardly walk away now.
When she turned back, the cop, middle-aged, his collar tight and stained with sweat, was looking at her. She swallowed and walked towards him. She tried for a facial expression that suggested professionalism combined with an attitude of been-there, done-that, nothing-new-to-see-here.
It didn't have the intended effect. Quite the opposite. When she was within a few feet of the cop, he frowned, rested the heel of his palm on the butt of his gun, and held his other hand up to stop her.
"That's far enough, Ma'am."
Mags swallowed again. Her throat had dried up. "Excuse me, officer. I can walk here, can't I?"
The cop looked at her with distaste. "You're not from this part of town, ma'am, with that accent, I'm guessing not even this country. So what brings you to our charming neighbourhood this morning? Visiting a friend?"
"No, not exactly. I'm, er, I'm—"
"Yeah. I know what you're doing." The cop spat on the ground. "Murder junkies. I've seen plenty in my time. You're my first Brit, though. Don't get me wrong. That doesn't improve my opinion of you. You're still a sicko. Now turn around and go back where you came from."
This wasn't going well at all. "No, that's not it at all. I'm… I'm a reporter, researching a piece on serial killers. I'm, I'm looking into the psychology common to, you know, the background, um, the reasons someone might, that is, well, you know…"
Under the cop's glare, her story sounded ludicrous to her own ears, and she shut her mouth just to stop herself digging a deeper hole.
"Yeah. And I'm the Queen of England. Now, go back to your nice hotel before I get mad."
Mags, flustered, backed away a couple of steps. "It's not what you think, officer. I'm not the kind of person who gets off on murders. I promise you." The cop's expression didn't change. Mags fished her phone out of her handbag, stepped to one side and, pretending she was making a call, took a photograph. At the sound of the shutter, the cop looked first at the phone, then at her. She was such an idiot. Didn't even put her phone on silent.
"Scram," growled the cop. Mags made a noise like a distressed small animal and scurried away.
As she turned the corner, she looked back at the trailer park. The cop had stepped a few paces forward onto the sidewalk, his hands on his hips, and was staring in her direction. With a burst of speed, she made it round the corner and out of view. Tears blurred her vision, but she shook her head and blinked them away. She hadn't planned any further than this moment and didn't have the first idea of what came next.
Mags just wanted to get back to the hotel, have a shower, and decide what to do next. There was no taxi stand in sight, and she hadn't seen a passing cab since arriving. Her phone had no 3G signal. She scanned the street for somewhere she could go to ask for the number of a taxi company. When a passing car slowed down, she picked a direction and started walking as if she were late for a meeting.
"Hey, lady, wait up."
Mags looked round. The estate car—station wagon, she reminded herself—had turned and was driving alongside her. The window was down, and a man wearing a pale cream hat leaned across the passenger seat, sunglasses perched halfway down the bridge of his nose.
"Me?" She pointed to herself, stupidly, as there was no one else on the sidewalk. She recognised him now. He had been at the trailer park, hanging back a little, writing in a notebook.
"I heard that cop give you the brush off. He pretty much gave me the same treatment, but I'm a little long in the tooth to get upset by it. We're in the same game." She stared in confusion. "Reporters," he said. "Wanna compare notes over a cold drink?"
As the parent of an eleven-year-old, Mags had often spoken to Tam about stranger danger. She took a step forward and stopped. What kind of idiot gets into a car with someone she met at the scene of a double murder?
The man in the car chuckled goodnaturedly. He looked like he was in his early fifties. Slightly overweight, and she suspected the hat hid incipient baldness. He opened the glove box of the car and pulled out a laminated ID card, holding it up to the open window. "Here you go. Don't blame you for being suspicious."
Mags stepped up to the curb and took the proffered card. In the photograph, he wasn't wearing his hat. Mags noted she was right, his hair was thin and patchy. Patrice Martino, member of News Guild-CWA. For all she knew, he could have printed it at home, but it looked official enough, and she was all out of better ideas.
"I'm Mags. Mags Barkworth." He didn't ask for her credentials, and she didn't offer them. He leaned over and opened the door.
"Jump in," he said. "I know a place where they do great iced tea. You Brits are big on tea, right? You'll love this."
It probably wouldn't be appropriate to correct him and tell him tea should only be consumed hot. Mags slid onto the seat, closed the door, and—as the window slid back up—enjoyed the cold blast from the air conditioning.
It wasn't a café he drove to, but a bar. Giovanni's, only a few blocks away from the trailer park, might as well have been in a different city. It was one of a cluster of smart restaurants and bars, and the tables outside were already busy at mid-morning. Martino led her through to a booth inside. It was dark and cool. She accepted the iced tea, and had to admit, despite her prejudices, that it wasn't a bad drink on a humid morning.
"I find places like this in every city I visit," said Martino. "You go back far enough in my family, it's all Italian stock. Like most Americans, I like to maintain some kind of connection with the old country, even if it's just a habit of eating too much pizza." He patted his stomach, smiling.
Mags sensed the conversation was about to move on to the reason she was here. She spoke first. "So you're a journalist, too. Who do you write for? And what are you working on, Mr Martino?"
"Call me Patrice." He sipped his drink, then took his hat off and put it on the bench next to him. Perhaps he wore the hat for the shade it provided, rather than vanity. He made no attempt to rearrange the wispy tufts of hair that remained around his temples. "Served my apprenticeship with the New York Times. Been freelance for fifteen years now. Sometimes I find my own stories, sometimes the feature editor of one of the nationals throws me a bone."
"And which one is this?"
"This is a little of both, Mrs Barkworth."
She considered asking him to call her Mags, but decided against it. Better to keep this on a more formal foo
ting.
Patrice paused, as if waiting for permission to use her first name. When it was unforthcoming, and the silence was about to become awkward, he spoke again.
"Serial killers are always good subjects for a feature," he said. "And this ain't my first rodeo. It's a fascinating story, and I wanna be there when it ends, which won't be long now."
Mags looked at him in surprise. "You think it will end soon? Why?"
Patrice didn't answer. He unzipped his messenger bag, took out his notebook and a pen, opened it and wrote Mrs Margaret Barkworth at the top of the blank page.
"What are you doing?" said Mags.
He put down his pen. "So far, you've asked all the questions, Mrs Barkworth. Okay, that's fine. You're a reporter. But it's tit-for-tat. You need to answer some of mine. Who do you write for? Why cross the pond for this story? What's your angle?"
He picked up the pen again. It was uncomfortable, lying to this man. She took another sip of her drink to give her more time.
"I'm freelance too," she said. "I'm looking at the psychology of killers, and this case is interesting. The whole bedroom thing, the way he arranges them. It must stem from something in his background. Some trauma or other."
"Sure. Makes sense." He wrote nothing down, though. He looked at her face for five, six seconds. She watched him come to a decision.
"Mrs Barkworth," he said, "we're writing different stories, for different markets, in different countries. How long are you here for?"
"Two, maybe three days."
"Okay. I'm driving to Hinesville today."
Mags looked blankly at him. She recognised the name, but jet lag was preventing her from making a connection. Then she had it. The picture on the fridge. "The murder scene?"
"Right. It's been three weeks since the killings in Macon, two months since Hinesville. Long enough for the circus to have moved on. I think I can get us into the house."
"How?"
"I've been doing this a long, long time, Mrs Barkworth. I have my methods. Wanna tag along?"
She hesitated.
"Check me out," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Check me out. Google me. I want you to know I am who I say I am. Google me. I insist."
"My phone isn't connecting," she said.
He slid his phone across the table. "Use mine." He clicked it on. The home screen was a photograph of a pretty girl in her mid-teens.
"Your daughter?"
"Yeah. Hannah. Takes after her mother for looks. More like me in personality. Thank God."
Mags looked up at that.
"Divorced," he said.
She didn't comment, just typed Patrice Martino into the search box. A few seconds scanning the results confirmed his identity.
"Shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize?"
He shrugged. "It was a helluva long shortlist." Mags decided she liked him.
"You didn't answer my question," she said, handing the phone back.
"Which one?"
"You said you wanted to be there when it ends. I asked you why you think it's ending."
"Fair question, Mrs Barkworth. I've written features on two serial killers, which meant researching dozens more. None of them had much in common apart from extreme violence and being fucking crazy. Sorry. I'm sure you have a better psychological word for it."
Was he teasing her?
"Anyhow, in every serial killer case, there's an acceleration along the timeline."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at this guy, for instance. First killing? Nearly a year and a half ago in the Everglades. Since then, he's always headed north, and he's got a taste for it. Second murder, six months after the first, just south of Lake Placid. Then he heads up to Ocala, but he only waits three months this time. Eight weeks later, he garrottes the couple in Hinesville. After that, he only waits five weeks before killing a family in Macon. The gap between Macon and Atlanta? Eighteen days. He's gonna screw up, and he'll screw up soon, because whatever's driving him to kill isn't giving him enough time to plan properly anymore."
"Any idea what is driving him, Mr Martino?"
"Patrice. Please. And no. That's more your department. What do you think?"
Mags took a long breath. "I think we can talk about it on the drive, Patrice. And you had better call me Mags. 'Mrs Barkworth' makes me sound like the headteacher of an all-girls boarding school."
He smiled at that. "It's a four-hour drive, Mags. You might wanna use the restroom before we leave."
Chapter Eighteen
They stopped for lunch at a gas station, and made good time, arriving in Hinesville mid-afternoon. It was only three weeks since the bedroom killer had visited this quiet town. Mags wondered how Patrice intended to get them into the house where it had happened. The address he tapped into the satnav led them to a small business park. Patrice stopped the car outside a real estate office.
"Better if you wait here," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Mags watched him through a large glass window. Patrice stood in the small reception area. As a young woman approached, he took off his hat. At first, the woman's arms were folded and she shook her head but, as she listened to him, her body language softened. After a couple of minutes, she put a hand on his arm as he dabbed at his eyes. She nodded, smiling, and he walked out to the car.
"Well?" she said, as he climbed back in.
"Joanna was very helpful."
The young woman appeared at the side of the building. She waved at Patrice and, getting into an open-topped Miata, drove off. They followed.
Seven minutes later, they drew up in front of a familiar house.
"Oh," said Mags, a weight dropping into her stomach. It was the house from the picture on the fridge. White clapboard, ivy, a tiled roof. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "Surely it's not open to potential buyers yet?"
"We have around thirty minutes, Mrs Martino," said Patrice, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile.
"Mrs what?"
Martino walked around the outside of the car and offered her his hand. The estate agent—realtor, Mags reminded herself—waited at the screen door.
"I told Joanna this was my second marriage," he said. "She thinks my first wife died three years ago. You and I met while I was on a trip to London. This is your first time in Georgia. You want us to live in Britain, but I want us to stay here. When I saw this house on the news, I knew you'd love it. The problem is, we go back to London tomorrow. This is my last chance to persuade you."
"That story convinced her?"
Patrice's smile broadened. "I had a clincher. I said the real reason I want to stay is because I could continue to leave flowers on my first wife's grave in Atlanta. Even though her dying words were that I should try to love again, I still think leaving the country would be a betrayal. Joanna cried."
Mags eyed him. "Well. You're quite something."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
It was a beautiful home, but Mags couldn't think of it that way. Every room reminded her of what had happened. The kitchen where, just a few months before, a woman had prepared a final meal. The bathroom, with toothbrushes in a beaker. When they reached the bedrooms, Mags didn't want to see any more.
"Is it okay if I look outside?"
"Sure, honey." Mags suspected Patrice was enjoying this. "See you downstairs."
Outside, Mags breathed fresh air with gratitude. In the dirt at the edge of a well-maintained flower bed, a trowel lay abandoned. Her chest was tight, her breathing shallow. She took a few moments to take control, calm down, wait for the tingling in her fingers to stop.
She left the yard by a wooden gate and walked up the slope leading to a wooded area. From there, she turned and looked at the house. It wasn't quite the right view. She took the picture out of her bag, unfolded it, and compared it to what she could see. Ten paces back and she was among the trees. She stopped, looked at the picture, then up at the house. Almost righ
t. She took a step to her right and crouched down. Better, but not perfect. Looking around to check she was unobserved, she lay flat on her front. That was it. What she was seeing now matched the picture. She stood up again. As she did so, there was movement in a window. She looked up and saw Patrice and Joanna looking at her. She folded the paper and stuffed it into her bag, brushed herself down, and went to the car.
The realtor gave her a questioning look when she emerged, but said nothing.
Patrice didn't speak until they had driven two blocks. "Any deep psychological insights?"
"A few." She yawned, feigning more tiredness than she felt. "How far away is the hotel?"
Patrice had offered to take her to Atlanta that night, but he'd admitted he was tired. He'd rather write up his notes and drive her back in the morning. She wondered what her husband would make of her spending the night in a hotel with another man. Well, not that she was spending it with Patrice, exactly. Even so.
She would have to call Bradley from the hotel and tell him about it. Yes, she'd definitely call him. Mags almost convinced herself that she meant it.
Chapter Nineteen
Towards the end of her third glass of wine, Mags acknowledged to herself that she was flirting. Not much, but a little. And she was enjoying it. She would never be unfaithful to Bradley, but she had to admit she appreciated the attention Patrice was giving her. It had been a long time since she had been alone with a man other than her husband. She had forgotten how it felt.
Even when Bradley had first asked her out, it had seemed strange to her. Subsequently, everything had followed a predictable pattern, but none of it seemed normal somehow. They met at a party, Bradley took her number, and called three days later. They slept together the fourth time they met. She spent the night in his hotel room before he flew back to Boston. Emails and phone calls followed. He started to spend more time working in London and admitted much of that decision was down to her. The engagement, marriage, and pregnancy seemed inevitable, like she was on train she had boarded in her sleep. It hadn't seemed that way back then. Ria had once suggested Mags was projecting her subsequent bouts of anxiety and depression back through time to re-frame the beginning of her marriage.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 8