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

  The Picture On The Fridge

  Ian W. Sainsbury

  Copyright © 2019 by Ian W. Sainsbury

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  For Ruth

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Author’s Note

  Also by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Chapter One

  Mags crouched behind the log pile, waiting for a murderer.

  It wouldn't be a long wait. Before leaving the cabin, she and Tam had watched a dark shape stumble up the icy slope towards them.

  She looked at her daughter. Tam's dark hair had stuck to her forehead. She was breathing too quickly, taking short gulps of air, each exhalation puffing out clouds into the freezing morning. Mags thought of the Thomas the Tank Engine episodes from when Tam was in kindergarten, seven years ago. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Thomas the Tank Engine puffed into the station. The Fat Controller was waiting for them and he looked angry. Very angry.

  Mags didn't know if the murderer was fat, but she knew he was angry. She didn't know if he was thin, tall, short, old or young. He might be an office worker, or a taxi driver. He could be a drifter, a carpenter, a teacher. Tam couldn't tell her mother if he was black, white, or Asian. She only knew what he had done to reach them, and what he wanted now.

  And what he wanted now was Tam. Which meant he'd have to kill Mags, because she didn't care if the murderer was built like a bear, she was going to stop him. Mags shook her head in mute fury and despair. The odds of her walking away from this encounter were close to zero.

  "He'll find us, Mum."

  Tam's face was rigid, her eyes staring. Mags turned to her, taking both her hands in hers, squeezing. She pulled her daughter's wool hat down over her ears and stroked her cold cheeks.

  The last time I'll touch her.

  "You remember the path we saw through the trees?"

  Tam nodded.

  "It leads to the next town. When I tell you to run, do it. Okay, Tam-Tam? Run as fast as you can."

  Tam shook her head. She didn't speak. Not even to object to being called Tam-Tam. Her lips were pressed tightly together, white lines on a pale face.

  Mags looked into her daughter's eyes and lied to her.

  "I'll be right behind you. We don't have time to argue."

  They both heard it. The crunch of snow at the front of the cabin, the laboured breathing. For a few seconds, nothing. Then footsteps climbed the steps to the porch.

  Mags released her daughter and placed her right hand on her chest, pushing her away.

  "Run, Tam. Run. Now."

  A moment's hesitation, an agony of indecision before Tam turned and ran for the trees. Mags watched the tuft of hair below her hat, and the inch of skin beneath it until she was out of sight. Tam didn't look back.

  Good girl.

  At the front of the cabin, the murderer rattled the door. When he stopped, Mags held her breath. She let the air out in a rush at the sound of glass breaking, and a window being pulled up.

  Not long now.

  Keeping the logs between her and the back of the cabin, she shuffled across to where she'd hidden the axe. Mags found the gap in the logs and slid her hand into the pile of snow-soaked leaves. She patted the frozen ground beneath, stretching out for the handle.

  It wasn't there.

  Her own breathing quickened now. She felt light-headed.

  No. No. It had to be there.

  She scanned the immediate area and saw another gap, a few feet away. Mags leaned across, her body flat against the cold, hard soil. She stretched as far as she could, her fingers going numb.

  "Oh, Christ, come on. Please."

  The back door opened. She stopped moving. She stopped breathing.

  Footsteps. A voice. Bland, unremarkable. What had she expected?

  "You should go. I'm here for her, not you."

  Fingers touched the rubber grip, nails dug in. She clawed it into her fingers. Once the axe was in her hand, all thoughts, even those of Tam, dropped away.

  Mags stood up. Faced him. Lifted the axe.

  "Come on, then."

  Her voice sounded hoarse. Shaky. She screamed her next words.

  "Come on, you fucker, COME ON."

  Chapter Two

  SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

  Mrs Matlock called Mags back just as she reached the school gate. Beside her, Tam stiffened with embarrassment. Mags had promised she could walk to school on her own after Christmas. Tam would be one of the last in her year to do so. Mags knew her daughter thought her over-protective. She was right, of course.

  "Mrs Barkworth! Mrs Barkworth!"

  Mags turned and acknowledged the teacher with a wave, before making her way across the playground against the tide of parents and children.

  Tam grabbed for her hand and slowed her down, pulling her closer. "I got my period," she whispered. "I was going to tell you at home."

  Mags had put together a small bag with sanitary pads and a spare pair of knickers for Tam to take to school, but it was still in a bedroom drawer. Her own first period hadn't arrived until she was thirteen. She shook her head at her stupidity.

  "I'm sorry, Tam, I—"

  "It's all right, Mum. Jas lent me a pad."

  "Thank goodness. And you're okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  Mags touched Tam's cheek. She looked a little paler than usual, her eyes even darker in contrast. Without the freckles, her face might be an adult's. Mags had a glimpse of a daughter she didn't know yet, the daughter who would go out into the world one day, and leave her. The lurch of pride and panic felt like a premonition.

  Mrs Matlock waited in the doorway of the classroom. Her dense grey curls were half-tamed by a hairband.

  Tam kept her head down as they followed her in. The teacher stopped at the far side of the room, her back towards them. Mags and Tam waited, unsure of what to do. The older woman looked over her shoulder and waved them
forward.

  "Well? What do you think?"

  They joined Mrs Matlock in front of a wall of pencil sketches. Tam enjoyed art, although she had no particular talent for it. Mags scanned the pictures, hoping she could pick out her daughter's. She wasn't optimistic. All the pictures showed buildings: houses, skyscrapers, factories, farms, garages, train stations.

  "This afternoon, the children sketched buildings," said Mrs Matlock, an eyebrow raised as if expecting some comment other than the obvious, "no shit." Mags nodded, checking the names in the corners of the drawings. Tam didn't have a recognisable style. She had crayoned stick figures with balloon hands and three fingers as a toddler before graduating to the standard four-windowed square house with a corkscrew of smoke curling from a chimney.

  Then she saw it.

  Near the top of the wall, just off centre, one picture stood out. It was so detailed, it might have been traced from a photograph. Its simple, but faithful, representation of everything in view reminded Mags of a documentary she'd watched about an autistic boy who drew intricate city skylines.

  She took a step closer, then looked back at her daughter. Tam's face was unreadable, her expression blank.

  "You drew this, Tam?"

  The faintest nod in response.

  "Don't be shy, Tamara," said Mrs Matlock. Tam hated Tamara even more than Tam-Tam. "What an amazing piece of work."

  Mags turned back to the picture. The building portrayed was a big, detached house, unlike anything in their North London neighbourhood. The Barkworth's street comprised Victorian semis, Edwardian terraces, and a few modern glass and zinc-topped statements.

  Nothing like this. The exterior walls were clapboard, the shingled roof boasted a single chimney. A wooden deck led to a screen door. Tam had, apparently, drawn from the perspective of an insect, because grass, leaves and branches obscured some of the building.

  The artist's attention to detail was remarkable. One board, close to a gable, sagged, and an enterprising bird had nested in the resulting gap. Tendrils of ivy curled round a corner. On the decking, an old bicycle stood where Mags might have put a porch swing. In a basket on its handlebars, tightly shut flowers were just visible. Mags thought they might be tulips.

  "I've never seen her so focused," said Mrs Matlock. She put a hand on Tam's shoulder. "Completely absorbed, she was. Wouldn't have noticed if the fire alarm had gone off, would you, Tamara?"

  Tam said nothing. She was pale, tired-looking. Mags remembered about her period.

  "Amazing," she said, smiling at Mrs Matlock, who was still talking.

  "I've seen nothing of that standard in fifteen years of teaching. A talent like that, well…"

  Tam squeezed Mags' hand and pulled her away.

  "Yes, yes, you're right," said Mags, as they walked to the door. "Thanks again."

  At home, with the kettle on, and Tam halfway through a glass of orange juice, Mags put an arm around her, pulling her close.

  "My little artist," she said. "What's up? Is it your period? Are you tired? Does your tummy hurt?"

  Tam raised her pale face to look at her. "It's the drawing, Mum."

  "What about it, darling?"

  Tam looked glum. "I don't remember doing it. I don't remember anything at all."

  "When's Dad home?"

  They sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen was still Mags' favourite room. House-hunting while pregnant, the open space and the clean modern kitchen made her grip her husband's arm when they'd first walked in. Then she'd fallen in love with the high, Victorian ceilings, the en-suite bathroom, the huge basement study for Bradley, and the glass box jutting into the garden at the end of the kitchen. The architect selling it had added that last feature; a sun trap in the summer, and the only spot where you could read without a lamp on a winter morning.

  The shutters were still open at eight in the evening. Light from the sinking sun slatted across the wooden floor, striping the boards orange and umber. Birdsong added its exuberant counterpoint to the classical soundtrack on the bluetooth speaker.

  Tam sipped milk and ate a cookie. Mags had insisted on referring to the snack as a biscuit for a few months after Tam first started talking, but she couldn't compete with an American husband and a daily helping of Sesame Street.

  The milk and cookie ritual before bed was one American import she had been happy to adopt. Milk and cookie, teeth-cleaning, bed, story, reading time, lights out. A pattern unbroken since Tam was a toddler. The fact that she still occasionally wanted a bedtime story at eleven-and-a-half thrilled Mags, but she tried not to show it. Maybe it was an only child thing. Maybe it was because her father worked away so much. Whatever it was, Mags didn't care.

  "His flight gets in early on Saturday. Very early. He'll be here for breakfast, honey."

  Honey was another Americanism that had crept in. It didn't sound strange on her lips anymore. It had only taken fourteen years of being with the Man from Massachusetts to get used to it. The language may have taken years to absorb, but Bradley himself had been a whirlwind. They'd gone from shooting the breeze and hanging out to dating and getting hitched within three months. Her friends and family had been incredulous at such impulsive behaviour. Well, the ones who hadn't seen Bradley had been incredulous.

  "Only two nights," said Tam, finishing her milk, leaving a bright white moustache behind.

  "That's right." Mags wiped a tissue over Tam's top lip before clearing away the glass and plate.

  "Mum." Tam took the tissue from her. Mags gave her the plate, and she put it in the dishwasher, holding out a hand for the glass. "I'm not a child."

  Mags almost smirked at the solemn way she said that, but kept her expression neutral. And Tam had a point. In some cultures, today was the day she became a woman.

  "Does it hurt? Your stomach, I mean. Is it uncomfortable?"

  Tam leaned against the dishwasher. Her new haircut—short, but still, somehow, untidy—shone in the last of the sunlight, fine golden tips a reminder of the blonde curls she had as a baby. Her hair was brown now, but lighter than those dark, intense eyes of hers. The recent run of hot weather brought out her freckles. Tam hated her freckles. Mags loved them.

  "I'm fine, Mum. You gave me all those books to read. I know more than most doctors. I am now an expert on ladies' plumbing."

  "Two books. I gave you two books." Mags smiled. "I just want to make sure you're okay. You don't know how your period will affect you until it happens."

  "Well, it's happening, and I'm fine. So stop worrying."

  "And what about that picture?"

  "What about it?"

  Tam was reluctant to say much more about her episode of artistic genius. She was half-convinced she had fallen asleep in class, although part of her remained aware of the pencil in her hand, the pressure of the nib on the textured paper. But Tam didn't know the house she'd drawn, or even if it was a real house. She was as surprised as Mrs Matlock by what she had produced.

  "Well…" Mags didn't want to push her. Tam wasn't keen to talk about it. A strange episode, but not worth getting upset about. She'd wait until she'd discussed it with Bradley. He always wanted every detail about what Tam had been up to.

  In bed, with another chapter of Oliver Twist finished—and Mags as horrified at the appalling sufferings of Oliver as Tam was fascinated—she kissed her daughter goodnight. Tam had already picked up her copy of What Ho, Jeeves.

  "You're reading that again?"

  "It's a classic, Mum."

  Mags was already in the hall when Tam called. "Mum?"

  She put her head around the door. Tam's expression was serious.

  "The picture," she began. She looked off to one side, as she often did when thinking. "When I finished, it…" Eyes to the side again. "It was like waking up from a dream. But… not a nice dream. A nightmare."

  "Oh, honey," said Mags. Tam shook her head.

  "I'm fine. But I didn't like it. I don't want it to happen again."

  Mags gave her the smile that parents give
their children when they're about to reassure them on a subject about which they know little, or nothing.

  "I'm sure it won't," she said. "Goodnight."

  Chapter Three

  Heathrow Airport, at 7:20 on a Saturday morning, was already bustling, although there was a muted quality to the buzz of conversation, as most of those checking in had got up in the early hours. They trailed towards the desks in a daze, dragging large cases and small children behind them.

  Mags and Tam went to the arrivals hall. Half a dozen transatlantic flights were due in time for breakfast. The stream of faces emerging from customs had spent hours with hundreds of strangers in a tin box hurtling across the sky, most of them eating peanuts and drinking too much. They looked in shock; movements slow, expressions blank.

  Bradley stood out. Not just because he looked alert, and rested, but because Bradley always stood out.

  Kit, Mags' brother, had taken her aside when she'd first brought Bradley round to show him off. "My gaydar is off the scale with this guy. Nobody is that good-looking, dresses that well, and is straight. Nobody." He didn't add that Bradley was in a different postcode, looks-wise, to Mags. She was his twin. He didn't have to. But he'd put a hand on her shoulder, looked her in the eye, and said, "I always thought I was the best lover in Britain, but I suppose I'll have to hand you the title. I mean, seriously, what else can it be? It's not like your personality is anything to write home about." She had punched him on the arm. Hard.