by Tony Salter
COLD INTENT
The Thrilling Sequel to Best Eaten Cold
________________________
It was always too good to be true.
Finding her, arresting her, proving her guilt … that should have been enough.
It should have been, but a small voice, deep inside him, refused to be silenced. The voice which whispered the same words over and over – how even a jail sentence wouldn’t stop her.
And then Sam looked at Julie, standing tall in the dock waiting for the verdict. He watched her smile and knew the truth.
It would never be over. She would always find a way to reach out for him and the nightmares would become reality once more.
________________________
Tony Salter is the bestselling author of two previous novels – Best Eaten Cold and The Old Orchard. His fourth novel, Sixty Minutes, is due to be published in 2019.
He is also working on a series of illustrated children’s books set in Norway.
He lives in Oxfordshire with his Norwegian wife.
ALSO BY TONY SALTER
Best Eaten Cold
The Old Orchard
COLD INTENT
Tony Salter
CONTENTS
2011
Beginnings
The Path of True Love ...
2015
A Time to Grieve
The Morning After
2026
First Contact
2037
Plans, Plans, Plans
Don't Kid Yourself
Sheep
Home Comforts
All Coming Together
Pinch Me I'm Dreaming
Donkeys
2042
What Goes Up
Change of Plans
Time to Pay
What Next?
Relief
That's a Surprise
Staying Ahead
Is It True?
Revelations
One In – One Out
Plan B
Siblings
Gossamer Threads
It's Complicated
A Rocky Road
Running Free
Reunited
Details
The Old Country
Unravelling
Old Friends
Secrets and Lies
Not Again
Control
Dark Memories
More Secrets
Nine lives
Epilogue
ETS Limited
Dawber House, Long Wittenham, OX14 4QQ
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by ETS Limited
Copyright © 2018 Tony Salter
Tony Salter has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
ISBN: 978-0-9957977-5-8
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For William, Evelyn, Anna, Jakob & Dylan
2011
Beginnings
It was still March. Dull grey clouds brushed an anaemic wash from horizon to heaven just like every other day. In the weak morning light, Fabiola watched as a chill draught caught the stream of smoke and tore it fluttering into pennant plumes. At some point, she’d need to get around to fixing the jammed window sash. At some point.
Also worth remembering to get a place with proper double-glazing next time. And south-facing would be a bit of a plan. Then again, she shouldn’t complain; no-one else in the room owned their own flat and, if she’d had to bet on it, Fabiola would have put good money that none of them ever would.
As Jax handed her the joint, Fabiola felt the raw energy passing between their fingertips like static electricity. She shivered and leant back against the wall.
Why did they call it static electricity? It was about movement after all. Was lightning static? Hardly. Or when kids rubbed party balloons against the sofa and their hair stood up like the bristles on a paintbrush? Not even slightly. It seemed like a stupid name and, at that happily stoned moment, Fabiola felt a burning need to know where the expression came from.
Hash always calmed her and allowed her to focus on the random, mundane details which were easy to overlook in normal life. She didn’t care that those fascinating nuggets were invariably not as interesting in the cold light of day. It was all about the moment – the flow of time slowed to a trickle and the here-and-now was everything.
Jax was different. When Jax smoked, she became even more wired than usual and that morning she was on fire, her body alive with a pulsing energy which seemed to throb inside her. Even from inside her cosy contemplative bubble, Fabiola felt her stomach curling in on itself and the familiar thrill tingling through her body. Being with Jax was never, ever boring and never, ever predictable.
She reached over and touched her lover’s cheek, stroking it with the back of her fingers. Her eyes and rational brain told her that the skin should be burning hot, but Fabiola knew it wouldn’t be. Jax’s face was as porcelain cold as always.
‘You planning on smoking that?’ Daz had arrived half an hour later than the rest of them and was carrying the nervous adrenalin of a night shift with him. He was smiling, but only just.
Fabiola was irritated by the interruption and considered ignoring him, but the moment had passed and anyway she always ended up feeling guilty when she teased Daz. It was too easy.
‘Here you go,’ she said, taking a last quick toke before leaning across to him. ‘Sounds like you need it.’
Daz half-grunted a response and dragged hard and deep, the thin paper crackling, glowing red and spitting sparks as he sucked in more and more smoke, seemingly without end. At last he stopped and held his breath, the joint now hanging loosely between his thumb and forefinger. Fabiola counted the seconds … thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … until he sagged forward and blew out a mushroom cloud of smoke like a steam train, a genuine smile now spreading contentment across his face. There was a reason everyone called him “whale lungs”.
‘That … is … much … better,’ he said, passing the remains of the joint to Linda. ‘I needed that.’
‘You still coming later?’ said Fabiola. ‘You look knackered.’
‘Yeah,’ said Daz. ‘Course I am. I’ll be sorted in a bit. Just needed something to take the edge off, didn’t I?’
Linda threw the useless cardboard roach into the ashtray and reached for the Rizlas. ‘You took more than the bloody edge off though, didn’t you? Greedy bastard! Sharing is caring, my mum always said.’
‘Sorry,’ said Daz, mumbling into his beard. ‘Long day. You know how it is …?’
‘Were the nutters being naughty then?’ said Jax.
‘Don’t call them that,’ snapped Daz, his soft, brown eyes hardening as he looked past Fabiola at Jax.
‘Why not?’ said Jax, doing her best to play the innocent child, but not fooling anybody. Fabiola never understood why Jax put so much effort into winding Daz up. He was a good guy and didn’t deserve it. She also couldn’t imagine what it would be like to do his job.
‘Cos it’s people like you talking about nutters, headcases and loonies that are half the problem,’ said Daz.
‘So, if I hadn’t called them nutters, they’d all be OK would they?’ Jax had stopped bothering with the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look. ‘They’d all be as sane
as the rest of us? Like, by magic or something?’
‘Most of them are a hell of a lot saner than you are, Jax,’ said Daz, standing up and looming over everyone. ‘Why can’t you stay out of my face? Just for once.’ Fabiola could see his shoulders tensing and his hands clench into fists before he turned and walked away mumbling, almost to himself. ‘Whatever. I’m gonna to take a shower.’
Jax put her arm around Fabiola and whispered in her ear, lips just brushing the lobe. ‘Why do you let him use our shower? I hate it. He always leaves it looking gross.’
‘That’s bollocks,’ said Fabiola. ‘For a big hairy lump, he’s amazingly clean … And why do you give a monkey’s? Aren’t you supposed to be the Queen of Chill?’
The shutters flickered lizard-like at the back of Jax’s eyes and Fabiola felt the warmth of her smile, but not before she’d caught the tiniest glimpse of something else, something darker. Jax was always – almost always – in complete control, but every now and then she would let her guard down and reveal what lay beneath her cool and effortless charm.
A tiny voice kept trying to tell Fabiola that the true Jax was wrapped up in that hidden darkness, but she couldn’t – and wouldn’t – listen to it. There was so much anger and hatred – a cold inhuman fury – which couldn’t be the truth of the person she loved. It was only the odd glimpse here and there. She must have been imagining it.
Today was worse than usual. Tormenting Daz was par for the course, but something else was going on and Jax wouldn’t tell her what. It had something to do with the protest march and the new crowd Jax had started hanging out with, but that was all Fabiola knew. One thing she did know was that she wasn’t even slightly interested in spending time with Jax’s new friends.
From everything she’d seen and heard, they were a bunch of smug, self-important idiots, always dressed in black and regurgitating revolutionary philosophy and politics quotes as though they’d written them themselves. And there was a dark edge to their narcissism which gave Fabiola the shivers. What did Jax see in them?
The little voice inside her was becoming more insistent every day and, for the first time, Fabiola wondered if it was time to move on. She had never imagined that she would end up living this kind of life and often felt like an imposter, anyway. She could argue politics with the best of them, and made a point of going on all the marches and protests, but did she really care that much?
Much as she might have wanted to escape her small town upbringing, that was who she was. She’d been a marginally rebellious teenager, not an urban warrior, fighting for injustice. This life, and everything about it, started and ended with Jax.
And their relationship was the biggest surprise of all. Falling in love with a woman was the last thing anyone would have expected her to do, especially Fabiola herself. This was Jax’s world, not Fabiola’s. It was as though she was living someone else’s life, wearing a stranger’s skin, and that skin was beginning to itch more and more every day.
Then Jax leant forward and kissed her, the fingers of her right hand sliding under Fabiola’s hair and stroking the soft fuzz on the back of her neck.
Leave Jax? How could she ever consider that? Why would she ever consider that?
‘Can I borrow this backpack?’ Jax was standing in the corner of their small bedroom, holding up the small daypack which Fabiola had bought to carry text books when she was at Bristol.
‘No problem,’ said Fabiola, smiling as she went through the motions of giving her permission.
When Jax asked for a favour or to borrow something, she would phrase it as a request, but the question was always rhetorical. It was also important not to expect to see the borrowed item again, or to expect any gratitude or payback. It was just the way Jax was.
‘What’s with the hoodie?’ said Fabiola. ‘I’ve never seen you wearing that before.’
‘Oh, this thing. I got it last week,’ said Jax, who was squatting down and reaching under the bed. ‘Keeps my ears warm.’
‘It’s not that cold today, and it looks stupid. You’re not a bloody cat burglar.’ Fabiola saw Jax pushing a plastic carrier bag into the backpack. ‘What’ve you got there?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jax. She zipped up the pack and turned to Fabiola. ‘And what’s with the bloody third degree? Are you still pissed off about me giving Daz a hard time? Get over it, why don’t you?’
‘Give me a break,’ said Fabiola. ‘I’m in a strange place these days.’
‘Well don’t take it out on me,’ said Jax. ‘Save it for the Tories.’ She turned to face Fabiola and smiled. ‘We’ll have a chat later if you want.’
‘Yeah. Sure,’ said Fabiola. ‘Look, just ignore me. I’m being an idiot. Shall we get moving? We need to be at Embankment by half eleven.’
‘OK,’ said Jax. ‘Let’s do it.’
By twelve o’clock, the crowd stretched up and down from Charing Cross Bridge as far as Fabiola could see. The papers had been saying that over a hundred thousand protesters were expected and Fabiola decided that there must be at least that many – although she accepted that she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between ten thousand and a million if it came down to it.
Anyway, there were a lot of people and they seemed to come from every walk of life. Young, old, some scruffy, some in city suits and loads of families with kids. A few were carrying placards, and she saw rolled up banners everywhere she looked. They would surely unfurl as the march got under way.
The three years since the banking crash had hurt everyone and now the government planned to turn the screws even tighter. It hadn’t seemed possible that there might be even more injustice and inequality in a developed country like the UK, but apparently anything was possible. A few fat-cat banker heads had rolled as a token gesture, but not many, and those sacrificial lambs weren’t exactly going to be wondering where their next hot meal was coming from.
It was no wonder that so many people had made the effort to come out and protest together. Fabiola may not have been as committed as the others – especially not Daz or Jax – but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the pain and anger on the streets. There had to be another, better way of doing things. It was billed as the March for the Alternative and Fabiola was convinced that a better alternative existed. People just had to want it enough.
On the dot of twelve, someone let rip with an air horn and the crowd came to life. She couldn’t see much apart from the bodies surrounding her, but she imagined what they must look like from above. Not serpentine – although the massed bodies were snaking along the Victoria Embankment for mile after mile – the march would probably appear more like a ponderous primaeval crocodile, swaying from side to side as it lumbered inexorably forward.
Daz and Linda were walking together just ahead, pressed close together – was there something going on between them? – while Jax dipped in and out of the crowd, chivvying people along like a hyperactive sheepdog. What had got into her?
At times, Fabiola wondered if they were moving at all and it seemed almost as though they were standing in a crowd at a gig rather than walking on a march. But they were making progress and by two-thirty, they were inching their way along Piccadilly towards Hyde Park.
The noise and excitement had grown as the road widened and people were able to spread out. The electric tension of the mob reminded Fabiola of her first protest in Germany and she shivered as the first tingles of fear ran through her.
‘Isn’t it amazing,’ shouted Jax, bouncing up and down in front of her. ‘Such a buzz.’ Her eyes were bright and her coal-black, fully dilated pupils darted back and forth like tadpoles. She must have taken something. Those eyes weren’t normal.
‘It’s getting too hyper for me,’ said Fabiola. ‘D’you see that smoke over there? What’s that all about?’
Jax put one hand on Fabiola’s shoulder and jumped, pushing herself up to see over the heads in front of them.
‘They’re having a go at the Porsche showroom,’ she said. ‘A few Blac
k Bloc there as well. Should be a laugh.’
‘No, it won’t,’ said Fabiola, suddenly afraid. ‘That’s not why we’re here.’
Jax wasn’t listening and seemed transfixed by the smoke and the rhythmic hammering coming from just ahead of them.
She heard Daz calling. ‘Fabiola! Fabiola!’
He was pointing towards the source of the noise and smoke and Fabiola pushed her way towards him.
‘Look at those bloody morons,’ he said, shouting over the swelling noise. ‘It’s no wonder no-one listens to us. That’ll be tomorrow’s front page, not the cuts. I don’t know why we even bother.’
There was a massive cheer and Fabiola saw the cracks spidering across the huge window as the first shards of heavy plate glass smashed onto the pavement. Black-clad masked figures were already climbing through the gaping hole, hammers and ice axes in their hands.
Daz grabbed her shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘This is gonna turn nasty.’
‘OK.’ She turned to look for Jax, but couldn’t see her.
‘Can you see Jax?’ she said to Daz.
‘Wasn’t she right behind you?’
‘Yeah. Just a few seconds ago.’
‘Well she’s gone now,’ he said, standing on tiptoes and looking around. ‘That might be her over there, but I can’t tell what with the hoodie and the backpack. Looks like her though.’
‘She all right?’
‘Yeah. She looks fine. She’s pushing through the crowd towards the action.’
‘Maybe she needs the toilet,’ Fabiola said.
‘Yeah. Maybe,’ said Daz. ‘You believe what you want to believe, but it doesn’t look that way to me.’
The bedroom was almost pitch-black – no stars, no moon, and the streetlights had gone off. Fabiola rolled over onto cold sheets and stretched out her arm. Jax still wasn’t back. Where had she got to?