Her phone rang. Unknown number. She brought the phone to her ear, said nothing.
"Mrs Barkworth? Margaret? This is Detective Sergeant Harrison. Can you hear me?"
When Mags spoke, her lips could only form one shape. "Tam."
"Your daughter is safe, Mags. She's safe, and she is unharmed. Where are you?"
Mags tried to speak again, but it was beyond her. Tam was alive. She was okay. She stared at the blue and white tape, the young policeman in front of the door stroking the suggestion of a moustache.
"Mrs Barkworth? I can take you to her. Where are you?" A pause. "Never mind. Are you opposite the house?"
Shocked, Mags looked up. A woman's silhouette raised a hand in the upstairs window, and Mags automatically did the same. The voice came back on the line. "Stay where you are. I'm coming down."
DI Harrison insisted Mags call her Hilary. As the Detective Inspector crossed the road, a police car drew up. Hilary Harrison put Mags' case in the boot and Mags got into the back. Instead of getting into the passenger seat, Hilary opened the rear door, slid inside and took Mags' hand. "Tam is fine, but she's had a terrible shock. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you."
Three days later
The family liaison officer's name was Florence. This was the fourth time she'd visited since David's murder. Bradley had excused himself and gone to his office as soon as she arrived.
"Do people make jokes?" said Kit.
Florence raised her eyebrows. "Jokes?"
She was older, mid-fifties, perhaps. Her greying hair was cut short and she used no make-up. Florence always wore the same expression: a disconcerting mixture of compassion and professional distance. Mags supposed that was that her job, in a nutshell. Florence offered support and passed on what information she could about the ongoing police enquiry into David's death.
"Your name," he said. "Florence. Often shortened to Flo. F L O. Family Liaison Officer. Do people make jokes?"
Florence blinked. "Oh. No. Not usually."
Mags looked at her brother. He was trying too hard. His timing was all off, his voice flat, his body slow. Mags sometimes walked into a room and found him standing there. More than once, she had taken his arm and guided him to the kitchen, or—if it was the middle of the night—back to the spare room, where he had slept since David's death.
Florence drained the last of her tea. They were drinking tea because that was the appropriate British response to a violent murder in the family.
Mags looked around the kitchen. Clock, sink, fridge, table, chair, Florence.
"Thank you for the tea." Florence stood up. "You have my number. If there are any more questions, call me."
"Any more questions?" Kit's voice was emotionless. He spoke as if he were reciting a shopping list. "Just the usual, Florence. Who killed my husband? Why would anyone kill him? Why, in three days, haven't you found the sick murderous bastard who did this? With DNA evidence and CCTV on every fucking corner, why don't you have the first fucking clue who wrapped wire round the neck of the only man I have ever loved, and strangled him? Those questions, Florence."
The FLO nodded, the same expression still on her face. Mags tried to imagine a different expression. Happy, disappointed, angry, aroused. No. It was impossible.
"As soon as there are any developments, I will be in touch. If not myself, one of my colleagues. I promise."
It was only people in authority or young sales people trying to impress who used the word myself in that context. As if suggesting there was another version available, a superior, more helpful version, perhaps. I am incompetent and untrustworthy, but myself is just the opposite. You'll be in safe hands there.
Mags put the extra cup in the dishwasher and turned to her twin. Grief hadn't aged him. If anything, it was the reverse. He looked like a little boy. She found herself wishing her parents were still alive. Perhaps they would have been able to give him the comfort he needed.
She had tried talking to Kit about America, why she had called to warn them. How she had known. Each time, her brother had waved her into silence, or walked away. He couldn't process it. Not yet. David had gone back to Aubrey Terrace to pick up his laptop, and had never come back. Dealing with that was as much as Kit could handle, and he wasn't handling that well. But Mags knew they had to talk, and that she needed Bradley to be part of that conversation.
She had told Detective Inspector Harrison she was sure the killer was American, that he had flown to London in the past week, leaving behind two bodies in an Atlanta trailer park. She told her about her trip, and about Tam's pictures. Even as she had spoken, she could hear how crazy it sounded. No one said so. DI Harrison pressed record on the tape player, asked questions, and took notes. But when they called Mags in next day, it was a junior officer who sat down with her. Early in the interview, the policewoman asked about her mental health. She went home.
At least they were watching the house. Unable to establish a motive, but knowing David's death wasn't because of a botched robbery, they were protecting Kit, in case he had been the intended victim. Two officers in an unmarked car at the front of the house, and regular patrols checking nearby streets.
Tam was upstairs, reading. Her grieving process was the most natural and robust of all. She burst into tears several times a day, and at night, would come to Mags like a toddler with a scraped knee, climbing into her lap and sobbing. A meaningless mumble of reassurance while Mags stroked her hair was enough to send her back to sleep.
Mags described everything, from the moment Kit had seen the photo in America until the phone call when she discovered Tam had drawn their house.
Her twin and her husband listened in silence. She had asked them not to interrupt. Kit watched her from somewhere inside a haze of prescription drugs and alcohol. Sometimes, his eyes lost focus and his gaze drifted around the room before settling back onto the drawings spread out on the table. Bradley was the opposite: so engaged with what she was saying it became uncomfortable. As instructed, he didn't ask questions, but he made notes.
Of all the reactions she had expected from Bradley, this one hadn't made the list. It was the look on his face that threw her. She had expected scepticism, perhaps, or disappointment at her secrecy. Maybe even pity, if he didn't believe her story. But this. This she couldn't understand. When she said Tam was drawing murder scenes, he had looked up at her so sharply, eyes widening, that she had stopped speaking. It was only later that Mags remembered when she'd seen that look before. It had been at the first scan, when they had discovered she was pregnant with twins.
She downplayed Patrice's involvement, mentioning a reporter had given her a lift to Hinesville, and leaving it at that. Martino's role changed none of the essential facts.
When she had finished, she poured herself a glass of wine. Kit mumbled. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Tam? Is she okay? She's okay, isn't she?"
There was a pleading look on his face, a desperate need for reassurance.
"She's fine, Kit. She'll be fine."
Kit poured more vodka into his glass, not bothering with tonic water. Mags said nothing.
To her surprise, Bradley closed his notebook, gathered the pictures into a pile, and stood up.
"Well?" said Mags. Why wasn't he asking any questions?
"Well," he echoed. "You know how this sounds, right? You told the police the same thing. What did they say?"
Mags took a gulp of wine. She was allowing herself one glass; she wanted to be alert if Tam needed her, but she wished she could chase oblivion, like Kit. "They think I'm crazy. They've assigned my case to the tea boy. The theory that an American serial killer has travelled to London because our daughter is drawing pictures of his crime scenes…"
"Quite. It sounds insane, Mags. But I know you're not crazy. Just scared, and vulnerable."
He scooped up the drawings and walked away. Mags called after him.
"Where are you going? We need to talk about Tam. What are we going to do? Do you
believe me? How else can we explain what's happened? I need you. Don't walk away."
Bradley stopped in the doorway. "I'll scan these and send them over to Dad. He has high-level contacts he can call. We'll find out what's going on. You really think Tam has a telepathic link with a psycho in Atlanta?"
He might have just described her as scared and vulnerable, but he wasn't being reassuring, or caring.
"Don't you think it's more likely this sicko posts photographs on some dark website before he kills, and Tam has found them? Come on, Mags, did you think this through at all?"
Again, Mags avoided bringing Patrice into the conversation. "Yes," she said. "Of course. I'm not an idiot, Bradley. So explain, if that's true, how he found us? The killer is in London. He wasn't looking for David, or Kit. He was coming for Tam. She was there until I told them all to get out. If David hadn't gone back... "
"Listen to yourself." Bradley sounded angry. His words were angry. But it was like watching an angry character in a movie, when you'd seen the same actor in a romantic comedy the night before. She didn't buy it.
He pointed at her.
"For the sake of argument, let's say this serial killer posts on the dark web. If he's good with technology, he could trace the IP addresses of people who visit his website. Maybe that's how he picks out his victims. Have you considered that?"
"No. No. I mean, I suppose…" She couldn't think fast enough to find a flaw in his argument, but there had to be one. Then she had it. "But if you're right, why did he go to Kit and David's house? The IP address would have brought him here."
Bradley was silent for a few moments as he thought it through. A brisk shake of the head signalled his rejection of her suggestion. "You're right. He would have come here first. But I'm guessing Tam took her laptop with her to Uncle Kit's."
Mags felt her skin prickle. She took another swallow of wine. He was right. He must be right. She wanted him to be right, because the alternative was too terrifying. But she couldn't quite bring herself to accept it. "If you're right, we must take this to the police," she said.
"No. I'm calling Dad. If we give this to the local cops, they'll hand it to some underpaid geek on a trainee scheme. If they take us seriously, they'll need to contact the FBI, or Homeland Security. They'll have to set up a combined operation, share intelligence, do everything by the book. How long will that take? No, Mags. Edgegen has connections with the government and the military and they owe us. If this sick bastard has a website, they'll find it, and they'll trace it back to him. Once we have a name, we can find him."
Mags knew Edgegen was a successful, well regarded company, but the influence Bradley was talking about was way beyond anything she had imagined. He had always been tight-lipped about his work, citing non-disclosure agreements and security concerns, but she had never guessed at anything like this. "How... " she began, and stopped. She focused on one question and started again. "Even if Edgegen has these connections, what can be done that isn't already being done? The American police, the FBI, all those agencies, surely they are already looking for the serial killer? What can you do that they can't?"
Bradley waved Tam's pictures at her. "They don't have these," he said. "I'm gonna do everything to close this asshole down so we can all sleep at night."
With an obvious effort, he softened his tone.
"Mags. I don't know why you didn't come to me straight away with this. I'm sorry you felt you couldn't. That's a conversation for another time." He held her gaze for a moment, kissed her forehead, then headed for the basement.
Mags picked up the open wine bottle, put it down again, rinsed her glass, and went to bed.
Regular glances at the bedside clock punctuated a restless night, alone in the double bed. 12:15, 2:04. 03:10. It wasn't until 03:45 that Bradley crept into bed and she drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mags was awake at five-thirty. Through an inch-wide gap in the curtains, she looked for occupants in the parked cars outside. Whether it was budget constraints, or the police thought the threat had passed, their protection had gone.
She looked in on Kit. He was asleep, twitching and mumbling, wearing one of David's shirts. Closing the door, she crossed the landing to Tam's room.
"Tam?"
Tam was sitting upright in bed, eyes open, her head moving from left to right.
"Tam? Honey? You awake?"
No response. Mags recognised the same expression she had seen the morning Tam produced the Atlanta drawing. If this was what absence seizures looked like, it was an apt description. Tam was there, but she wasn't there. Her body moved, her eyes looked around her, but she wasn't seeing what was in front of her.
Scared to disturb her, but not wanting to leave her alone, Mags sat down and stroked her daughter's hair. "I'm here," she whispered. Tam didn't respond.
Mags said it again. This time, Tam looked at her. Mags jerked backwards in shock. It wasn't her daughter, it was a stranger.
"Mum?"
The moment passed and it was Tam again.
Her heart palpitating, Mags took a second to reassure herself that her daughter was back. Was that how a mouse feels when it looks up at a passing shadow and a silent owl drops from the sky?
"Tam. I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
In answer, Tam hugged her mother. She spoke into Mags' hair. "I was dreaming. It was different, like I wasn't here. I dreamed I was someone else." She shivered.
"It's early," said Mags. "Everyone else is asleep. Fancy a fried egg sandwich?"
Tam straightened her shoulders and nodded.
"Rather."
My whole existence has led me to this moment. I am sorry for folk who go through life believing everything is random. I know better. There's a plan, and some of us know our part in it. I am grateful for that.
When I was a kid, I was angry. Angry my dad left us before I was born. Angry my mom wasn't cut out to be a mother. And angry about being sick all the time. As I grew up, I learned to dislike everyone around me, the so-called normal people. People who spend half their life asleep. I tried not to resent my condition, tried to accept I would never experience proper rest. But it affected everything.
At school they said I had learning difficulties. That's what the teacher told Mom, anyhow. The kids used another word. They said I was retarded. They left me out of their games, didn't invite me to parties. So I hated them. I wasn't stupid, just tired all the time. And they were plain ignorant.
Mom wasn't a churchgoer, but she had a Bible, and she watched hellfire preachers on public television. I read the Bible because the people on TV—the politicians, the actors at the Oscars, even the president—all quoted from it, all believed it. They thanked God for their success. I wasn't sure what to thank God for.
I tried finding out more about what was wrong with me in reference books at the library. When I was older, I searched the internet. There were other people who struggled to sleep, but not many like me. Mom said I never slept for more than a few minutes at a stretch when I was in my cot. Nothing changed as I got older.
In my twenties, browsing a forum for the sleep-deprived, I found a post asking for volunteers. A research company offering decent money for drug trials. Their website listed conditions that qualified candidates for their program. Sleep disorders were on the list.
I called the number. I asked about money. The trial paid more than I made in three months pumping gas, so I packed my things and headed north.
There were over thirty of us at first. We met in a hotel conference room. The doctors talked about new drugs, we signed forms, we stayed for the weekend, giving blood samples and filling out forms. On Sunday, everyone was due to go home.
One of the trial doctors knocked on my hotel room door late on Saturday night. He asked about my sleep problems, but I could tell he didn't care about my answers. He was leading up to something. Finally, he asked if I would consider a more serious procedure. An operation. Experimental, but it might cure my disorder. There
were risks. He named a figure. I did some calculations, figured I wouldn't have to work for a couple years. Before I signed, he asked about family and friends. I told him Mom was drinking herself to death, and I'd never had a friend. I signed.
The next day they collected me in a private ambulance. They sedated me on the way to the hospital.
Time passed. I don't know how long. That's a side-effect of never sleeping normally, I guess. I can't tell how long I was unconscious for. When I woke up, the same doctor asked me how I felt. I remember touching the bandage on the shaved part of my head. The hair on that side was rough stubble. After a lifetime of not sleeping, I had been unconscious for over a day. But it wasn't the same. I wasn't rested. I didn't feel the peace I hoped for.
They gave me the use of a small apartment. I'm sure they watched me. The doctor came by every day, ran tests, asked me how I slept. He asked me to be patient, said it would take time. He always had a list of questions. Some of them were plain weird. He wanted to hear about my dreams, and asked if I ever dreamed during the day, or saw visions.
One day, weeks later, I decided it had all been for nothing. The operation had given me nothing other than the scar on my head. It was my lowest ebb. I imagined ways to end my life.
That morning, I got on my knees and prayed. I never had religion like Mom did, but it seemed the right thing to do if I was about to die. And that's when it happened. At the foot of the bed, hands folded, my left eye twitching the way it does at times. I mumbled words and phrases I remembered from the Bible. My prayers were dry, mechanical. I guess that's how it is for most folk, most of the time. I thought no one was listening. But someone was.
I didn't hear a voice, saw no blinding light. Nothing like that. It was more like something unfolding in my mind. A flower, maybe. Petals opening, looking for the sun.
The words I had been praying stuck in my mind during this unfolding, this new sense of another presence. I repeated the words, and they had meaning now. The peace of the Lord. The peace of the Lord be with you.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 12