"What is?" said Tam and Mags at the same time.
"Cheshire Cats."
Tam gasped. "No way. Wait until I tell Rose at school. I could text her if I had a phone. Mother, you are stifling my social progress."
Cheshire Cats was one of the most popular shows on TV, starting as an internet series before being snapped up by an international production company. An addictive mixture of documentary and semi-improvised soap opera, it followed the lives of a group of young, glamorous, moneyed women. Mags tried watching it once, but ten minutes in the company of the self-obsessed, self-important narcissists was more than enough.
"They're taking the show out to Germany for six months. Cheshire Cats in Alexanderplatz. It's huge there."
Mags didn't doubt it. German toilets often had a display shelf built in, so you could appreciate your own shit. Cheshire Cats no doubt fulfilled a similar purpose.
Kit laughed at his sister's expression. "You're not a fan. Don't pretend."
"True. I'm not. But I'm happy for you. That's wonderful."
They all toasted Kit's news. He'd be away over Christmas, helping set up the show for filming in January. Mags couldn't stop herself hoping her brother might meet a nice Berliner.
Mags let Tam have the window seat, and her nose was pressed against the glass as soon as her belt went on.
While the jet climbed above the clouds, banked west and headed towards the Atlantic, Mags took stock. This was a habit adopted during her years of therapy with Ria. Sunday morning was the regular stock-taking slot, but this trip marked a significant moment at the end of an awful year, and she needed to recognise there were positives to be thankful for. The therapist had advised her not to ignore the negatives, but to acknowledge them alongside more life-affirming moments. She balanced a notebook on her knee and chewed the pen. Writing things down always helped.
David's murder. It had been the worst moment of their lives; an unthinkable, unspeakable act perpetrated on a man they loved. Her brother lost a husband, Tam lost an uncle, Mags lost a good friend. But David had lived well and loved well. Eighteen years older than Kit, he had never been slow to point out how much he loved him. Kit admitted that David made him swear, should he die first, that—after a six-month period wearing black, wandering the streets of London ringing a bell, and reciting Stop The Clocks—he would get back out there.
Kit's temporary relocation to Berlin would help. Mags knew her twin.
Bradley. Her marriage was in better shape than she expected. She could look back on the years of paranoia with fresh eyes. Logically, she had always hoped her darker thoughts, her suspicions about Bradley, were down to her depression and anxiety. Now the evidence supported this. It had all been in her mind. When she needed him, Bradley came through in the most convincing way possible. He protected Tam, and he protected her. Over the months, the familiar distance between them returned, but Mags wasn't threatened by it anymore. She and her twin were huggers, quick to show affection. In her teens, she assumed the same intimacy would go along with marriage. That it didn't was not a bad thing, just an indication she shouldn't judge everybody by her own limited experience. People showed affection in different ways. Bradley showed it by making his family secure, financially and otherwise. Writing that down made it sound cold, but their passionate encounter on the kitchen floor hadn't been a one-off. There had been two or three more occasions since. She had suspected him of planning that spontaneity, then pushed the thought from her mind. It might not be the most exciting, sensual relationship in the world, but it was solid, and worth working to maintain. Bradley was a good man.
The picture on the fridge. That was how Mags labelled Tam's frightening few months. There was no easy psychological answer for what had happened to her. Mags researched the subject as thoroughly as an amateur with an internet connection could. She also asked Ria. The absence seizures common to some forms of epilepsy fitted the bill. When Tam drew the pictures, she phased out, she wasn't there. Tam was as surprised as anyone by the drawings. The mystery of where Tam had seen the original pictures was never cleared up. Early on, when Kit moved out and life was returning to normal, Mags broached the subject. She did it circumspectly, watching her daughter for signs of distress. It was clear that Tam, with the natural resilience of a child, had moved on. She preferred to forget all about it. After some thought, Mags couldn't help but agree.
Healthy daughter, solid marriage, Kit on the road to recovery. Yes, it had been a terrible year. Mags had always found the expression time is the greatest healer trite, at best. In the early days after Clara's death, it sounded cruel. She never wanted to forget her baby, never wanted to stop thinking about her daughter. As the months stretched into years, she saw she had been wrong. Time didn't bring forgetfulness, it brought ways of dealing with unimaginable pain. That was how it healed. The pain would always be there, but it was woven into her being. She carried Clara with her. She could never forget her. The same for David. They all carried David now.
The captain's announcement broke into her thoughts. Seven-and-a-half hours to Boston. Bradley had booked club class. A frosted panel blocked her view of Tam. As Mags closed the notebook, there was a tap on the glass.
"Yes?"
The panel slid down, Tam holding the button on the other side. They smiled at each other as their faces came in to view. Mags felt a wave of hope as she looked at her daughter's face.
"Do you want anything to drink, honey?"
"What a delightful idea, mother." Tam still sometimes spoke like a Woodhouse character. "A mint julep would hit the mark nicely, don't you think? Be a sport and order one for me, won't you? Thanks, old chap."
As the glass slid up again, they both snorted with laughter.
Mags pulled out her phone and made a note on her calendar. After this trip, she would call Ria and cancel her future therapy sessions. Maybe send her a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine.
Everything would get better from now on.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mags had expected Boston to be cold. Just not this cold. She'd visited half a dozen times, but this was only her second winter trip. Despite bringing a decent overcoat, she shivered as she and Tam made their way from the arrivals hall to the pickup point.
To her surprise, it wasn't Bradley meeting them, but his father. She couldn't recall Todd Barkworth ever putting family before work. Mags sensed he saw her as an unfortunate distraction for his son.
Barkworth senior was a big man, with the same pale blue eyes as his son. If Bradley aged as well as his father, Mags expected the envious looks from other women to continue well into his dotage.
"There you are, Mags. I'm sorry you're stuck with me. Bradley was in the middle of something in the lab, so I offered to pick you up. Wonderful to see you both."
He offered? Something had changed. Mags expected, and received, a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. The Barkworths didn't hug.
Tam stood shyly beside her, her usual bluster gone for the moment. It had been two years since she had seen her grandfather; a long time for an eleven-year-old. When Todd smiled, she stepped forward, sticking her hand out.
"Absolutely charmed, old sport," she said.
Todd shot Mags an amused glance, then looked back at his granddaughter. "I heard you were getting precocious."
He leaned down and wrapped his powerful arms around her. Mags couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. She flushed as she acknowledged she might have misjudged the old man. Tam was his only grandchild, Bradley his only child. It couldn't be easy, seeing so little of her. Todd never denied being a workaholic, but still. It was his son's little girl, and she had changed, as little girls do, in the twenty-six months since he and Irene had last visited London.
Todd helped them with their luggage and held the car door open while they slid onto the back seat. He didn't take his eyes off Tam until he started driving. He looked delighted to see her. Excited, even.
Mags held Tam's hand as the car pulled away. Fat white flak
es drifted past the window, lending a magical sheen to the snow-covered city.
Mags stayed conscious long enough to acknowledge Irene Barkworth's formal greeting at their palatial house in the moneyed district of Boston. Then she went to bed and insisted Tam did the same.
Bradley got in late that night, and Mags surfaced from a deep, jet-lagged sleep to kiss him, before turning on her side and snoring. She woke up to a note promising he would be home early that evening.
On their first full day in Boston, Irene Barkworth announced she was taking Mags and Tam shopping in the city. Mags enjoyed shopping, Tam wasn't a fan. If it had been a mother and daughter trip, they would have alternated the shoe and clothes stores with books and toys. Tam had pronounced herself too old for toys on her eleventh birthday, but couldn't walk past anywhere with a giant teddy bear in the window.
With Irene leading the way, poor Tam didn't stand a chance. Irene was a stick thin, brittle-haired woman whose dark, even, tan was far too good to attribute to Boston summers. She and Mags had little in common, and their conversation was amiable, stilted and tedious. Irene had appointed herself tour guide for the day, but her commentary was weighted towards which fashion outlets had opened, moved, or closed in the last few years. As the morning wore on, Mags had to stop looking at Tam, because every time she caught her glance, her daughter would go cross eyed, or slump as if falling asleep.
Despite knowing how bored Tam was, Mags couldn't help herself stopping in wonder outside a window which displayed the biggest selection of upmarket shoes and boots she had ever seen.
"Mum…" Tam warned. Mags knew how much of a cliché it was for a woman her age to be obsessed with shoes, but she couldn't pretend she didn't enjoy buying them. She was a feminist through and through, but no one could deny the absolute pleasure of slipping on a pair of slingbacks, objects of beauty untouched by human hand since their manufacture. She could admire the elegance of their design, couldn't she? Feet were not the prettiest part of a body, but Jimmy Choo could fix that in no time. Well, in an hour or two and a few hundred dollars time.
She felt a hand tugging at her sleeve. "Mum." Tam's voice was louder and carried a tone of mock-horror.
"You're not going to… you're not thinking of… oh, God, it's too late, isn't it? You're beyond help. Please, Gran, help me drag her away before she spends my college fund."
Irene Barkworth looked from daughter to mother. "Tell you what. There is a place two blocks away does the most amazing hot chocolate you've ever tasted. Great waffles, too. How about Tam and I go there for a treat, while you try on some shoes?"
"Granny, whose side are you on? We must try to break Mum's cycle of shoe buying, leaving said shoes at the back of wardrobe, then taking them to a charity shop a year later. She needs help, can't you see? Medical help. Hang on. Did you say waffles?"
Tam took her grandmother's arm.
"I release you, Mother. Run free. If it's possible to run in heels."
"I'll join you in an hour," said Mags, optimistically. "Don't eat all the waffles. Shoe shopping makes me hungry."
She watched them turn the corner, Tam chatting with her grandmother. It was a rare talent, putting members of any generation at ease. Maybe she'd grow up to be a politician. Hopefully not.
When Mags turned back to the shoe shop window, she collided with a passerby. A man in a dark brown overcoat and scarf, a battered hat on his balding head.
"Excuse me—"
"Mags. How are you?"
She gaped at him in disbelief. Patrice Martino smiled and removed his hat. He wasn't dressed for the weather, his only concession a thin scarf. Mags folded her arms, making an effort to recover her equilibrium.
"Mr Martino. You look well."
"As do you, Mags, as do you. And please, it's Patrice."
"I think I'll stick to Mr Martino, if you don't mind. I'm guessing this is no coincidence?"
"You're guessing right."
"Mr Martino, there's a reason I stopped replying to your emails. To be honest, I don't even open them anymore. It was a terrible time, but we've moved on. The serial killer has stopped killing. Dead, probably. Whatever happened with my daughter is over. I don't want to drag any of it up again, ever. Please understand."
She frowned. "How on earth did you know I was in Boston?"
Patrice Martino shook his head. "Not here. There's a coffee shop around the corner. I'm buying."
Mags shook her head. "You didn't answer my question."
Martino spread his arms in a gesture of surrender. "One coffee. Please. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important. I'll explain how I knew where you were. Come on, Mags, I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Mags thought of that drive to the airport in Atlanta, and the way Patrice Martino had talked her down from a panic attack. "One coffee."
Chapter Thirty-Two
The coffee was good. It had to be. No one would dare serve sub-standard coffee in Boston. Bostonians were caffeine connoisseurs, and they liked it strong and flavoursome. Martino took a sip and sighed his appreciation.
"Now that's what I'm talking about," he said. Then he shook his head. "I never understood that expression. I assume it first came into use as a reference to something under discussion. Not anymore. It's become stand-alone. And it makes little sense. I'm sorry, I'm talking too much, I do that when I'm nervous."
Mags didn't ask why he was nervous. Patrice Martino had emailed her several times in the months after David's death. As the press never connected the Camden Lock murder to the Bedroom Killer, Martino hadn't known about it. He wrote asking what happened after Mags left Atlanta. Mags lied. She hadn't felt good about it, but the truth would lead to more questions. Answering those questions risked exposing Bradley's part in removing the killer from the scene. Not information Mags wanted to hand to a journalist. She didn't trust herself to speak to him on the phone and ignored his calls. She wrote one email telling him that Tam's picture, the one that sent her rushing back to London, was nothing out of the ordinary. That there had been no more pictures. That the killer was probably dead. For a few weeks, the emails stopped, and she thought Martino had moved on to a new story. Then they began again. She only read the first. Martino was following a lead on Edgegen Technology, Todd Barkworth's company. He had uncovered some scandals in the nineteen-seventies and eighties, when the company were pursuing a secretive line of research funded by the US military. He mentioned cover-ups and out-of-court settlements and promised to send more information. Mags wrote back asking him not to bother. Any unethical business practices in Todd Barkworth's past had no relevance to her family now. And she couldn't condemn Todd Barkworth's connections if they led to the capture of David's murderer. Mags sometimes wondered what had happened to the Bedroom Killer. He had never seen the inside of a court of law, never had a fair trial. When she thought of David, she decided she could live with that.
When Martino's emails kept coming, Mags moved them into her trash folder unread. She blocked his number on her phone and hoped she had done enough. His surprise appearance in Boston suggested she hadn't.
"You said you'd tell me how you found me," she said. Patrice dropped his hat onto the chair next to him, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Mags remembered the gesture from the day in Hinesville.
"I bribed someone at the airport," he said. "When your name popped up on the passenger list, she called me."
"That's an outrageous violation of privacy," she said. She stood up, but Martino grabbed her wrist.
"Mags."
She looked down at him. Her reluctance to hear him out wasn't that she didn't trust him. It was because she did.
"Sit down, please. It's important."
He released her. She sat down.
"You haven't read my emails, have you?"
"Mr Martino," she began. He gave her a look. "Patrice. I'm not ungrateful for what you did in the summer. I don't know I would have done without you."
Patrice offered no modest rebuttal. He didn't even shrug. His expres
sion was level and unreadable.
"And, and… I know you're a good journalist and a good man. I have nothing but respect for you. But for Tam, and for me, it's over. No more pictures, no more murders. She's doing well at school, she's happy. She's growing up too fast but, every parent thinks the same, don't we?"
Patrice still made no response. Now he was in front of her, he seemed reticent to speak. Mags felt as if she were on the back foot, having to justify herself. She stopped talking, met his gaze. "If you have something to say, Patrice, you might as well say it."
"It's too complex to blurt out over a cup of coffee."
Mags looked down at her half-finished cappuccino. "I have to get back to Tam."
Patrice took a piece of newspaper from his jacket pocket, putting it on the table in front of Mags. It was faded yellow, the edges brown.
"Nineteen eighty-three," said Patrice. "Edgegen have never been much for publicity, but they couldn't avoid it when they built their new lab in Boston. Some of the money came from local politicians. They posed for the whole cutting the ribbon bullshit. And this was the only photograph of the research team I could find."
Mags studied it. The mayor of Boston shaking hands with a much younger Todd Barkworth, who looked so much like Bradley she did a double take.
Patrice pointed. "Second from the left at the back."
There were six people lined up behind Todd and the mayor. The caption identified them as research scientists. They wore white lab coats with the Edgegen logo embroidered above the breast pocket. Todd wore a suit. Second from the left was a small woman: unsmiling, not looking at the camera. The scientists were unnamed in the caption.
"Ava Marston. She had been working there three months when that photograph was taken." He put the clipping in his pocket.
"So?" Mags took another mouthful of cappuccino. She wanted to find Tam and forget this had happened. She didn't want Patrice to keep talking. But he did.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 15