Best Eaten Cold: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down.

by Tony Salter

  Looking back, it was easy to see that I was much more of a child than I thought I was at the time and, when the shit hit the fan, my world changed forever. He lost his job, his wife kicked him out, and there was some talk about whether he should be prosecuted.

  The sad thing was that he professed his love for me throughout the scandal. The more he'd write to me, the more I felt creeped out and began to see him as a pathetic old git – perving over young girls – who'd tricked me. It made me feel dirty and stupid.

  My family, of course, went apeshit and all sorts of things were said in the heat of the moment. My grandmother wasted few words, at least not to my face. 'Puta' was quite enough for her. My parents tried to understand, but struggled enormously.

  After Joe, nothing was ever the same again. I'd certainly shown everyone how far I was prepared to go in order to distance myself from my small, insignificant life in Bedford and, within what was still a southern Italian peasant community, most people were happy enough to see me go.

  I must have been unbearable at the time and so sure of everything – opinionated, arrogant and happy to exploit and abuse the fact that I was a bit smarter than those around me. A complete and utter pain in the arse.

  Our family survived the final six months – until I finished my A-levels – by avoiding each other. My brothers and sister were a few years older than me and, somewhat perversely, they had ended up even more like traditional Italians than my parents were. We weren't very close, but I had expected them to take my side, at least partly. I was wrong, and the disapproval in our house coated every available surface like mildew.

  When I moved to London after university, I stopped even going back home to visit. I had hardened myself to the tears, cries of 'why are you treating us like this Fabia?' from my mother, stern, sad words from my father and grandfather, 'can't you see what you're doing to your mother?' and hurt, but pretending not to care, bickering with my friends and siblings, 'well fuck you Fabs, if you think you're so much better than us, stay in fucking London then'. And now? Now, looking back, it all appeared to be so pointless and petty and mean.

  Why had I made such a big effort to finish the job I'd started with my affair, to estrange myself completely from my home and my family? Surely it couldn't have only been because of my politics? That wasn't reason enough. However hard I thought back, I couldn't come up with any single specific reason, although the continuous anti-bourgeoisie sniping from Jax probably hadn't helped.

  It was as though I'd been overtaken by a temporary madness and had simply dug my heels in, driven by a dogmatic certainty that trying to live my life as an urban radical and pop home for a nice Sunday lunch was the ultimate hypocrisy.

  Then, without warning, my parents died and all of the bad blood was washed away by shock and grief. I stayed for over a month with my older brother Roberto and his family. They took care of me while I tried to find a way to move forward. In fact, we all took care of each other.

  I was the baby of the family but my brother Paulo, who was six years older than me, took our parents' death the hardest. He just gave up, and he never got going again. In the six months that followed, he lost his job, his wife left him and he became a virtual recluse, sitting at home watching endless reruns and mindless reality TV. As far as I was aware, he never found his way out of that hole.

  They'd been out Christmas shopping at the Harpur Centre. It was Sunday after Mass, the only time they had free to be together and to catch up on a bit of normal life. The car came full pelt out of a side street without looking and broadsided them across the road, sending their old Fiesta spinning into the path of a small truck. My mother had died instantly, and my father never recovered consciousness, although he hung on for a few more hours, long enough for the family to get to the hospital and to be there at the end.

  Except for me. I'd been too late to hold his warm hand one last time, but I'd been too late for a long time. The hospital had put them side-by-side in a small chapel where I sat alone with them and said everything I wanted to say and should have said earlier, words which had formed soundlessly as I sat on the train, my blank eyes barely registering the dismal brown fields sliding by. Words of regret, of gratitude, of respect, of love and of loss.

  The young guy driving the car which hit them had apparently been uninjured and, according to the witnesses, he'd simply reversed and driven off. It was a white Audi TT, either stolen or belonging to some spoilt rich kid, with a numberplate beginning with BK or BH. My two brothers Roberto and Paulo had spent hours every day for weeks afterwards, cruising around Bedford looking for a white Audi with a smashed front end, adrenaline-fuelled and ready to jump out and chase down our parents' murderer. No-one was surprised when they found nothing but then again, neither did the police.

  I often wondered if the driver had read about what happened in the papers. Did he care? Did he carry guilt with him for the rest of his days, or was he one of those soulless shaven-headed zombies whose ability to feel guilt or remorse had been excised at an early age by a fight-or-die world of anger and violence. I hoped that, even if he was in the latter group, there would be a moment, like the elusive green flash of a tropical sunset, just in the space between waking and sleep, when he would see everything with open eyes, understand truly what he'd done and feel the pain of guilt scour him from head to toe. If not, it would have to wait, but I had no doubt about what would happen when he met my parents' God. He was not the forgiving type.

  I saw much more of my family in the year that followed and had been especially pleased to have re-forged my bond with my grandfather, Nonno, who had always been my hero. He was the same hard, gnarly Puglian oak he'd always been, holding the family together throughout the nightmare. Still solid and unbending on the outside, I could see he'd been hollowed out by the loss of his only son and was struggling to find answers to the biggest questions of all. For him, life had stopped having a point. He was going through the motions, not least because, as a good Catholic, he didn't have an alternative. I think he enjoyed our time together, and was happy I had come back into the fold, but it wasn't enough.

  As it had turned out, the family reconciliation had been short-lived. Nonno died less than a year after my parents, and I was foolish enough to take Jax to the funeral. It was unclear quite how things had kicked off, but words were said which couldn't be unsaid and I hadn't spoken to any of my family since. Looking back, I didn't understand how it could have happened. Why had it been necessary to pick sides like that?

  Blast from the Past

  Most phone bugging software sits quietly hidden in the operating system, recording activity data as specified by the hacker. It functions whether the phone is turned on or not and is extremely difficult to disable. The only way to protect yourself is to employ a security expert to check your device or to never let your phone out of your sight.

  "How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World". JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015

  By the time I got to Brew, the sun was out and I allowed myself a moment of optimism. During the half-hour walk from Deborah's, I realised that, even though it had only been the first session, I did feel better.

  I'd been fighting this every inch of the way, heels dug in deep and dragging furrows in the dirt like a tug-of-war anchor on the losing side. Everything is straining as the white tape inches closer and closer to the centre mark. Veins bulge and pop, muscles burn and fade but you keep trying to hold your ground, just a little more, just a few seconds longer.

  Until, all of a sudden, you stop trying. The decision to give in and stop fighting comes in a rush, almost as a surprise, and you tumble forward over the line with disappointment and relief flooding over you in equal measures.

  Accepting that I might have a problem was a relief. It gave me back some element of control in contrast to the feelings of spiralling panic which had been threatening to overwhelm me. It would take time, but Deborah had assured me that my issues were not unusual and, whatever was behind
them, we would be able to find a way to manage them. My intransigent, pig-headed certainty that I couldn't be imagining any of this was, in fact, blocking my path of recovery. It did make sense but that didn't make it easy.

  Brew was unashamedly hipster; filled with beards, cool specs, vinyl records and a whole slew of authentic retro touches; I settled down at one of the four two-seater tables with a cup of Sumatran Gegarang – one of the three specials brewing that day – and checked my phone for messages.

  After a few minutes, a burly guy in a black donkey jacket eased himself into the chair opposite me; he was heavily bearded and wearing a thick woolly hat, but I would have known him anywhere.

  'Daz?' I said, eyes wide with surprise. 'What the fuck are you doing here?'

  'Take it easy, Fab, stay cool,' he said, looking up briefly and smiling before shifting his gaze back to his coffee. 'Don't make a scene. Just chill.'

  Darren, better known as Daz, was one of the original members of our London group, the only one apart from Jax who'd been there at the Rostock G8 demos in 2007. Although it was difficult to imagine looking at him, he was a senior mental health nurse and apparently very good at his job. I hadn't seen him, or any of them, for over two years.

  He was being very shifty but he'd always had more than his fair share of paranoia, and I knew it would be easiest to play along.

  'The question stands,' I said, quietly and not making any sort of scene. 'It's great to see you, but what the fuck are you doing here?'

  'I followed you from your house. I needed to see you. Look, have you seen Jax?' he mumbled, his interest in the cup of coffee undiluted.

  'No. You must know that,' I replied. 'She didn't exactly react well to me leaving, and then when I sold the flat ... Well, I assumed she must've turned all of you against me.'

  'Yeah, she did hang you out to dry at the start but there was no surprise there. We all knew what she was like,' he said. 'And she disappeared not long after. No-one's seen her since.'

  'What? Not at all?'

  'Nope. Thin air. But she's always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic.'

  'I'm starting to understand that,' I said. 'Can you believe I never saw it at the time? I must have been so blind.'

  'Yeah. Actually, I can believe it,' he said. 'That was her trick, wasn't it? Making people see and feel what she wanted them to.'

  'But we were together for five years. I should have seen something.'

  'You were different Fabi. I think you were the only person she ever cared about. The only one she trusted.' He dragged his eyes up from the table and looked at me. 'You should have seen her after you left. She completely lost it for a while. I've never seen anything like it.'

  'Sounds terrifying.'

  'It was, and it might have been part of the reason why we didn't keep in touch. We figured you were better off out of it.'

  'Fair enough. I did want out anyway and I knew where you were. So, anyway, why are you looking for Jax now and what's with all the cloak and dagger bullshit?'

  'I've not been looking for Jax. I've been looking for you. I wanted to give you a heads up. The cops have been asking around, looking for Jax. Something to do with March 2011, the TUC anti-cuts rally.'

  'That turned out to be a heavy day.' I said. 'My last protest.'

  I wasn't going to say anything to Daz, but I knew something had gone down with Jax that day. I'd lost sight of her early on. She'd been sly and secretive all morning and, as we were walking through Trafalgar Square, I remember turning to say something to her but she'd vanished.

  I hadn't seen her again until she'd slunk back to the flat at about five in the morning, covered in dirt and what looked like food waste, with a big cut on her forehead.

  She wouldn't tell me what had happened and made me swear not to say anything and to tell everyone we'd been together the whole time. I'd agreed and, by that stage in our relationship, had no desire to know what she'd been up to anyway. I think I'd been ignoring her more volatile sides all along; it was only around then that the blinkers were coming off and I was beginning to see what she was actually like.

  'Yeah. The bloody black bloc ruined everything.'

  Daz had been deeply upset by the way the media had focused exclusively on the violence and destruction carried out by a tiny percentage of protestors. He wanted to make the world a fairer place but cared about more than just breaking the system and destroying the rich. He hated the violent fringe with a passion.

  'That was probably why it was my last march,' I said. I finished my coffee and looked at him. He looked like a tramp but he was genuinely a good person, a good friend. Maybe my judgement wasn't totally screwed up? 'It's good to see you, but you didn't come up to Oxford to reminisce. The police are looking for Jax? What's that got to do with me?'

  'I don't know. My guess is they've picked her up from the security videos and it must be something bad if they're still on her case after three years.'

  'I guess.'

  'Well. It's only a matter of time before they connect her, the flat and you. I'd expect a visit one day soon and I thought you'd want to give your bloke a bit of context before the plod comes knocking.'

  'Thanks Daz.' I wasn't quite sure how I was going to give Rupert any sort of context. 'It's really appreciated. I always knew there was an angel under that scruffy beard.'

  'No problem. Solidarity and all that,' he said. 'Have you got any idea what she might've got caught up in? Did she tell you anything?'

  'Not a clue. We were separated before we got to Trafalgar Square. The whole thing was a bit of a zoo.' I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder. 'Listen, I've got to get back to rescue the baby from my mother-in-law. Thanks for this. Will you say hi to everyone from me? Are you still with Linda?'

  Daz looked at me closely, his eyes locked on mine as if he could tell I knew more than I was letting on. 'Course I will Fab. Yeah, Linda and me are still an item. Apart from you and Jax leaving, nothing's changed and it probably never will.' He put his hand on top of mine for a moment, still holding that penetrating gaze.

  As I got up and walked out of the cafe, I heard him say, almost to himself. 'You take good care of yourself, Fabi.'

  'Roop, I need to tell you a bit more about Jax,' I said.

  We were sitting at our small dining table scraping up the last smatterings of a delicious apple crumble which Virginia had magicked up when she was here earlier. That woman really was like the home economics professor from Hogwarts. It was frightening.

  The wood burner was oozing warm comfort in the corner, Sam was happily asleep, and a dozen candles were scattered around to complete the romantic winter evening scene. I suspected I was about to ruin all of that by shoving a king-size spanner into the works, but didn't see an alternative after what Daz had told me.

  I could see Rupert had been about to lick his bowl but, hearing the tone of my voice, thought better of it, and sat back in his chair like a naughty boy. 'Ouch,' he said. 'You sound serious. You sure you don't want to do this another time?'

  'Better now,' I said. 'I think you should know everything about me, but you might not like it so much.'

  'Try me,' said Rupert. 'I might surprise you.'

  'OK. Well, I popped into that new coffee place, Brew, on my way back from seeing the counsellor. You remember the one I told you about?'

  'Yup. I think so. What's that got to do with Jax?'

  'I'm getting there. Anyway, I was sitting having my coffee when this bloke sat down at my table. He was being all secretive and weird and it took me a couple of seconds to realise it was Daz. D'you remember him?'

  'Of course,' said Rupert. 'We met him a couple of times at the Kings Arms. He was strange but seemed nice enough. Clearly totally in love with you though. Like a puppy.'

  I laughed. 'So you're not totally brainless and lacking emotional intelligence then? Surprising for a man.'

  'Come on Fabs, give me a break. We need to know how to protect our females from rogue males.'

  'Well, anyway, th
at wasn't why he was there. He wanted to tell me something about Jax. Something important.'

  'Hang on a sec,' said Rupert. 'How did Daz know you were going to be there?'

  'He told me he followed me from home.' As I said it out loud, I realised how bad that sounded.

  Rupert was well ahead of me. 'What! So, firstly, how the hell did he know where you live? And secondly, you're saying he waited outside our house, then followed you secretly and waited for another hour outside the counsellor's house before following you to the cafe?' He was standing up by that point and his voice had become squeaky with outrage. 'And none of this strikes you as worrying? How long was he waiting outside the house? Is he out there now?'

  'Fucking hell,' I said. 'Of course you're right. It just didn't click because I was listening to what he had to say about Jax. It's very creepy.'

  'Creepy is a bloody understatement.'

  'But I'm sure Daz is harmless enough. He always looked out for me.'

  'Well, you say that, but I've got no idea what these people you used to know are actually like. Are you sure he's not dangerous? We've got Sam to worry about now.'

  'You're right, of course. I'll speak to him. Maybe you should come?

  'Too bloody right I'm coming,' said Rupert. 'Anyway, tell me what he told you about Jax and we'll get back to him sneaking around later.'

  'Well, it starts at the christening and what Daz said triggered the memory,' I said. 'D'you remember that I told you I saw someone sitting at the back of the church during the christening? Someone who crept out before the end of the ceremony?'

  'Yes. A woman. But you didn't recognise her, did you?'

  'No,' I said. 'But I think I do now. I'm sure it was Jax. She looked completely different, but I've got this gut feeling it was her.'

  'How sure?' said Rupert.

  'Pretty sure. But then she was gone so quickly and it was right at the critical moment. I wouldn't put it past her to have shown up unannounced though. It's just the sort of thing she'd do.'