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

by Tony Salter

  On the day of the actual summit, we were with a group of five or ten thousand, mostly peaceful, demonstrators, part of a co-ordinated action to block the eastern gates of the summit hotel. This mob had an intelligent mind and knew what it was doing; a sea of rainbow flags gave the media the spectacle it was hoping for and we came prepared with waterproof tarpaulins to protect against the water cannons and sacks of straw to defend against police batons and to build barricades.

  The demonstrators outnumbered the police maybe three to one and slowly moved forwards in a five-fingered formation, a gloved hand, towards the gates. The police could see the weakness of their positions, and were thrashing about with their batons, but we stayed strong and kept moving forwards, just like the salt protestors in the film Gandhi, shaming the police with our refusal to either back off, or to repay violence with violence.

  The noise was incredible and the chaos seemed to go on for hours, but it was probably no longer than fifteen minutes before the police realised they had no chance and ran. We had won, the gates were blockaded and no-one was going to get in or out that way.

  I can still remember the feeling of adrenaline-fueled elation rushing through me as I looked around and saw that we'd done it.

  I remember even more clearly the way the feeling drained away when I realised Fabiola was nowhere to be seen. She and Jax must have split off into a different finger as we formed up. I wanted to share the moment of victory with her, but Jax had made sure that didn't happen.

  She wanted Fabiola all to herself, whatever it took. Why couldn't Fabiola see that? Why couldn't she see what Jax was like?

  After Fabiola moved to Oxford, I knew she wouldn't want people like me hanging around and ruining her new life, but I've still kept an eye on her. Not only to have a chance to see her but to make sure she's OK as well. I never let her see me though and I can only get enough time off work to be there every couple of weeks. Still it's better than nothing.

  He seems all right, that Rupert bloke, but I don't like the look of his mother. Not sure why, but I don't trust her. Snooty, hard-faced bitch if you ask me. It looks like he's kind to Fabiola – which is what I care about most – but something's wrong and I can't put my finger on what it is.

  On the face of it, everything is going well – new baby, husband, nice house – but she doesn't look happy at all. She looks scared.

  I've seen that look a lot. Whenever we get a new patient on the ward, they've got the same look of disbelief. 'This isn't me. I'm not supposed to be here. There's nothing wrong with me. You've made some sort of mistake.'

  It's the same look every time, but why would Fabiola have it? It doesn't make any sense.

  A Clean Bill of Health

  Mobile phone spy software allows the controller to bug conversations at will. Even with the phone switched off, it is possible to activate the microphone and record nearby speech. Times can be manually controlled or pre-set. Recordings are then forwarded to the hacker when the phone is next connected to WiFi and automatically deleted afterwards leaving no trace of the activity.

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

  This was my sixth, and hopefully final, visit to Deborah. I'd been coming once a week for an hour each time – with a break for Christmas and New Year – and, as I got to the door of her office, I realised a part of me was going to miss the sessions.

  I had been so much better since I started. No more incidents and I was completely myself again, although I could still taste the fear and panic which had been eating away at me only a few weeks earlier. Even thinking about it made me tense up and start looking for an escape route, somewhere to run to, somewhere safe.

  That was possibly the most debilitating part of the whole situation. My instincts screamed at me to flee, but you can't run from yourself and I had needed to find some way to push those feelings back down inside me, however strongly they were screaming at me to do something, and to do it fast.

  It had been difficult to accept it was a part of me, that I had the potential to lose my grip on reality in that way. It put me somehow into a different category of human being. I wasn't an axe-wielding psychopath, but I had been suffering from a type of mental illness and, although it was objectively fairly mild, it hadn't felt mild to me.

  There was such a lot of stigma attached to problems of the mind and I was the sort of person who would always have subconsciously seen mental fragility as a flaw, a weakness and something to pity. Definitely not something which could apply to me.

  As with every previous session, Deborah didn't waste any time with social chit chat. She wasn't interested in me telling her how I was getting on, her approach was to follow along with various threads and themes across the sessions and to allow me to reveal my progress to her, and to myself, in the context of those evolving themes and unravelling threads. The most interesting revelation for me was the way in which I would so often be surprised by what I said and thought.

  'How are things with Rupert?' she asked as I sat down. 'Are you having good sex again yet?'

  This was a topic which we'd dipped in and out of several times already. Over the past few months, Rupert had taken on the role of carer and I'd found it difficult to see him as I had before. Our life hadn't been entirely celibate since Christmas, but I'd lost most of my passion and desire. I didn't really get turned on and ended up faking it more often than not, which made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. It wasn't only me and my mental state though, some of it was definitely coming from his struggle to deal with the way our relationship had changed.

  'I think we're getting there,' I said, smiling at Deborah's now-familiar bluntness. 'We're both beginning to see the funny side of our hang-ups and the last two times we've made love it's been much more like it used to be.'

  'Good. And the business with Jax and the police?'

  'Rupert's still worried about that. He feels betrayed by me keeping those things secret and possibly a bit thick for not figuring them out for himself. He knew we were involved in political activism but chose to ignore it. Now he's been forced to face up to it, he doesn't understand what we were doing and why. It upsets him. To tell you the truth, looking back, it upsets me too. I can't quite see the person I was then as "me" if you know what I mean.'

  'Of course I do, Fabiola. It's understandable and not so unusual. Lots of people have periods of their lives when they become fixated on a goal or a mission which appears to come from nowhere and can disappear just as quickly. These passions are often associated with a strong personal relationship with someone powerful and manipulative, often possessing an evangelical charisma of sorts. I think that was how you once described Jax to me?'

  'Yes. That's exactly it.'

  'It might be politics, it might be marathon running, but religion is probably the most common. It's also not at all unusual for people to feel disorientated, confused and disappointed when they look back on the relationship after it's over. Did the police ever contact you about Jax by the way?'

  'No, but it's funny you should bring that up,' I said. 'I had a text from Rupert ten minutes before I got here and two police officers are coming around this evening to see me. I doubt it's a big deal though.'

  'No, I'm sure it won't be. It might even represent some sort of closure for that time in your life.'

  'Maybe?' I smiled. 'But that does sound like a bit like a bunch of psychobabble, doesn't it, Deborah?'

  Deborah laughed, a deep throaty laugh. 'Fair enough, guilty as charged. It appears my work here is done. As far as I can tell, we've made some great progress and, everything else being equal, you stand a good chance of putting this behind you as a one-off experience. I'm recommending to your doctor that you carry on taking the fluoxetine for the next six months and we can have another session then to check everything's on track. Don't forget that one of the side effects can be reduced libido, so that may have an impact and, of course, if you have any more episodes like before,
or panic attacks of any kind, you should go and see your GP straight away.'

  I stood up and went over to give her a hug. 'Thank you Deborah. I do feel much better and I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm so grateful for your help.'

  'You're very welcome Fabiola, it's been a pleasure.'

  It was more like seven o'clock when we heard the knock at the door. The police must go to special door-knocking school where they learn their technique for delivering a clear, sharp, not-to-be-ignored knock with the command and authority which is missing from an ordinary civilian knock. There was, of course, no point in mentioning the fact that we had a perfectly good doorbell.

  There were two of them standing there. 'Good evening Mrs Blackwell, my name is DI Johnstone and this is my colleague, DI Simpson. We're sorry to disturb you so late. Is this a convenient time?'

  'It's fine,' I said, standing back to let them pass. 'Please come in and sit down. My husband told me you'd be coming this evening.'

  Another thing they must teach at police school is the perching-on-the-edge-of-the-sofa pose. Make sure you don't get too comfortable, you're on official business, after all. It didn't take long to get them suitably perched, each warming their fingers around a mug of hot tea.

  They made quite a pair, DI Johnstone was early-forties, tall and composed of skinny, sharp angles, from his pointy elbows and knees to his perfect roman setsquare nose. In contrast, DI Simpson was a few years younger, curvy, petite and blonde and probably not much over five foot tall. She would never have got into the police in the bad old days before it was decided that height restrictions were discriminatory.

  'So, what can I do for you?' I said.

  DI Johnstone cut straight to the chase. He took a photo out of his bag and handed it to me. It was blurred and grainy, probably taken from a CCTV camera, but there was no doubt about who it was.

  'Do you recognise this woman?' he asked.

  'Yes, of course I do,' I replied. 'It's Jax Daniels. As I expect you already know, we lived together for almost five years until a couple of years ago.'

  'Yes, we are aware of that. We're interested to know if you've got any idea of Ms Daniels' whereabouts, or any thoughts on how we might locate her?'

  'No, sorry, I'm afraid I've not heard from her for almost two years. We didn't exactly part on good terms and, as far as I understand from mutual friends, she's disappeared.'

  'Thank you,' he said, handing me another photograph. 'And what about this?' It was a photo of a dark-grey backpack next to a white, numbered card.

  'Well, it looks like a daypack which I used to have, but I can't be sure from the photo and it was a pretty common brand. Loewe or something like that. I lost it years ago.'

  '... And when was the last time you remember seeing it?'

  'As far as I can remember, the last time was when Jax borrowed it on the day of the London TUC demonstration in 2011. She was wearing it when we were separated and didn't have it with her when she came back.'

  'Did she say what had happened to it?'

  'No. But she made a bit of a habit of borrowing and losing my stuff, so it wasn't a big deal.'

  'OK,' he said. 'I'd like to come back to that in a minute if I may. Just one more.' A third photo was handed over and I could feel DI Simpson's gaze burning into the side of my face as I looked at it.

  It was a picture of the same backpack with two old-fashioned light bulbs and a nasty looking folding knife resting on top. I looked up at DI Johnstone, still acutely aware of DI Simpson's intense scrutiny.

  'It's two light bulbs and a knife. I'm sorry, what is it that you want to know?'

  DI Simpson replied this time, and I turned to face her. 'This is what we found in the backpack. The light bulbs are filled with ammonia. We would like to know if you've ever seen them, or the knife, before.'

  'No, of course not,' I replied. 'I think you'd better explain what's going on here.'

  DI Johnstone took back the lead, 'We'll explain as much as we can,' he said. 'But, before we do, I'd like to go through what happened that day, to understand a bit more about your movements and those of Ms Daniels.'

  Rupert was sitting next to me on the sofa and jumped into the conversation.

  'Look, this is sounding a bit like an interrogation. Is my wife under suspicion of some sort? Should we be asking for a lawyer?' He turned to me. 'Are you OK with this darling?'

  I gave his hand a squeeze. 'Yeah I'm fine, thanks.' I turned back to DI Johnstone. 'I'll tell you what I know but I hope you understand it was three years ago and I don't remember every detail.'

  I went through the timeline of that day as accurately as I could, finishing with Jax coming in at five in the morning in a mess, but didn't mention the part where she asked me to promise to say we'd been together.

  'That's about it, I'm afraid,' I said, once I'd finished. 'That's all I can remember. Now are you going to give me some idea of what this is all about?'

  DI Johnstone shifted forward on the sofa. 'I'll share as much as I'm able to,' he said. 'But you have to understand, this is an ongoing investigation and there's a limit to how much I can say.'

  Rupert and I both nodded, and he continued, almost reciting from a script like he was giving evidence in court, part pompous and part droning and dull.

  'During the protest, I expect you know that a violent minority, a so-called 'black bloc', of about five hundred people were unusually active. There was property damage, random violence and they fought running battles with the police. We'd been under a lot of public pressure following the kettling containment strategy we'd used in previous demonstrations and were taking a deliberately low touch approach. In retrospect, it was a big mistake and we were unable to control the violence as the perpetrators were too spread out and fast moving. We were being led on a merry dance, as the saying goes.'

  DI Simpson stood up and walked over to the window where she stood silently gazing out into the night.

  'But it wasn't so merry,' said DI Johnstone, looking over at his partner. 'Thirty-one police officers were injured on the day, some seriously, and one officer in particular was hit in the face with an ammonia-filled light bulb. The injuries eventually resulted in him losing the sight of both eyes. All of this was widely reported at the time but what is not well known is that, twelve months later, that officer took his own life.'

  'Oh my God,' I said, bringing my hand up to cover my mouth. 'How terrible. But you're not suggesting Jax was involved in that, are you?'

  'I'm afraid that is exactly what we believe,' he said. 'Although the violent protesters were all masked, we have video evidence indicating that Ms Daniels was directly responsible for the attack, which appears to have been deliberate, planned and unprovoked. We found the backpack in some bins at the back of a Chinese restaurant in SoHo. As you could see in the photo, the backpack contained two more ammonia-filled light bulbs and a knife and had clearly been abandoned in a hurry. Unfortunately, we were unable to identify Ms Daniels until recently and, in fact, believe she was living under an assumed identity in any case.'

  'What do you mean by 'assumed identity'?' I asked.

  'It appears that her name and legal persona were built around the documentation of a child, Jacqueline Daniels, who died six weeks after birth in nineteen eighty-six. Among other things, we have evidence that a copy of the birth certificate of the deceased child was used to register for a social security number a little over ten years ago. The Jax Daniels who you knew never existed.'

  I sat speechless and open-mouthed, desperately trying to think of examples or evidence which would show that they were mistaken. Facts, history, anything that would allow me to explain to them that it wasn't true. We had been together for such a long time, known each other inside out, shared everything, or so I had thought.

  There must have been something but, hard as I tried, I couldn't find a single concrete fact. She'd claimed to have grown up in Uxbridge I thought, or was it Acton? How could I not know? I'd never met anyone from her family, not a single schoolfriend, I
didn't even have an idea of where she went to school. I sat there like a lemon, not knowing what to say or think.

  The sound of Sam crying had never been so welcome. I needed a couple of minutes of normality to get my thoughts in order. I changed his nappy and, when he was ready, paraded him around the room to say goodnight. When I put him back in his cot, he went back to sleep without a murmur. God, it must be so much simpler to be a one-year-old.

  DI Simpson seemed to understand how stunned I was. She turned from her position by the window and walked over to me as I came back. Almost too close. 'Don't worry Mrs Blackwell, I am sure this all comes as a bit of a shock. I want to assure you that we have no reason to suspect you of being involved in this situation at all. Our video evidence backs up what you told us, so you shouldn't worry on that account.'

  I could see she was upset. For whatever reason, this was personal.

  'One thing I can assure you of however,' she said, each word filled with cold anger. Her blue-grey eyes were fixed on mine, hard and unblinking. 'This will not be dropped. We will find her and we will bring her to justice however long it takes.' Bubbly blonde and pocket-sized maybe, but the package came with a sharp edge. 'If you think of anything, however small it may appear, or hear from her, or about her, in any way, please call us on this number. In the meantime, be cautious. She is an extremely dangerous woman.'

  And that was that. Half of my adult life, turned into a lie.

  The End of the Beginning

  A lot of hackers get their kicks from breaking down huge security walls. Leaving some anarchist propaganda on the Pentagon's website or pulling a bunch of correspondence from the GCHQ mainframe and publishing it online. That doesn't rattle my cage, and it's not what I'm best at either. I'm not a good enough programmer to deal with the heavy-duty corporate system security although, back in the day, I'd have been happy enough to break in and smash up the mainframe with a sledgehammer.