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

by Tony Salter

  I'm much more about personal data security – that's what I do. I'm a personal online security consultant. I help my clients to protect their identities and, almost by definition, they tend to be wealthy, high profile and paranoid. I charge a lot for my time. When I'm not working, I like to ferret around and find holes in the system and tricks to exploit them. It's always been a hobby of mine and it keeps me on my toes.

  After Fabiola left, I lost the plot for a while. It all seemed pointless without her and, in any case, I was bored with being an anarchist and I'd made a few mistakes which might be coming back to bite me.

  It was time for Jax Daniels to disappear for good.

  With a fresh identity in place, I started putting a lot more effort into my consulting work and I'm now making good money – over a hundred and fifty grand a year.

  Meanwhile I still have my private project ...

  ... And phase one has come to a perfect end.

  Fabiola – along with everyone around her – is convinced that all of her problems over the last six months were in her mind, the result of some sort of post-partum brain fart. That idiot counsellor has added a white coat seal of approval to everything; she's been professional, kind and supportive and has convinced Fabiola she did have mental issues but has responded well to treatment. It's such a load of bullshit.

  Thank God I got the phone software loaded in time, those counselling sessions are hysterical and I've been playing them over and over. No-one suspects for a moment that anything sinister is going on. They've all decided that Fabiola has been imagining everything, the poor dear.

  My favourite was the parking ticket. Such a small thing, but such a big impact.

  I needed to be nearby to remove the ticket but it was easy to track her using the GPS on her new, compromised phone. I should probably have left straight away, but couldn't resist staying to watch what happened.

  I'm so happy I did. For a moment or two, I thought she was actually going to break the steering wheel, she was hitting it so hard. And the little old lady coming to help was just priceless. You really couldn't make up stuff like this.

  I didn't mind not being invited to the christening. Not especially. It was the last in a long series of rejections which, deep down, I did understand. Honestly I did.

  Fabiola had a new life – new friends, new family – a much shinier, cleaner version of life. I understood why she wanted to distance herself from me, from the past. Our relationship wouldn't sit well in her new squeaky-clean world.

  I get it. I'm not a fool. I can understand the whys and the wherefores, but – and I need to be absolutely clear here – understanding and forgiveness are two very different things in my world.

  Until the child came along, I think I'd assumed that Fabiola would see the error of her ways and come back to me. I wouldn't have been too proud. I'd have taken her back. I'd have made her grovel first though, made her suffer for all the times she made me suffer.

  But then I saw the smug grin she had on Facebook after it was born and, when I read those emails about the christening invitation list ...

  Well, if she thought I was just going to sit here, hurting all of the time, watching them have a perfect time with their child, she obviously never knew me at all.

  I went to the christening anyway, sat at the back of the church and made my own vow. I didn't have anything against the child, and I wasn't planning to hurt it, but I would break up their happy little family if it was the last thing I did.

  It was quite ironic, I suppose. A bit like Sleeping Beauty. A christening curse from an evil fairy. I guess that would be me, then.

  I didn't enjoy listening in to her conversation with the police so much. Traitorous bitch. So much for promises.

  I'm not worried. They'll never catch me. I'm a bloody identity thief – if I can't hide, who can? I've got my new identity and I've broken contact with anyone who knew me as Jax.

  The new 'me' died with both of her parents in a car crash, twenty-four years ago. She's five years younger than Jax and Jax was one year older than I actually am but I've always had that ageless 'gamine' look anyway. Let's face it, given the option, what girl wouldn't want to shave four years off her age overnight?

  I'm no longer the sort of person who gets involved with protests and I look completely different. It only took a few – very expensive – cosmetic tweaks, but even my mother wouldn't recognise me now.

  Jax Daniels was a great name though and I'll miss it. No more 'on the rocks' jokes for me.

  Anyway, back to Fabiola who has been miraculously 'cured'. It's time to take a break and let everyone believe it's true.

  If she has no more episodes for a year or so, she will relax and any nagging suspicions will fade. The human mind is so good at pushing dark episodes like this into its hidden recesses.

  The dance isn't over though. Jax may no longer exist, but I will always remember.

  I'm in this for the long game and when Fabiola has a relapse – as she will when I decide the time is right – everything will come flooding back.

  It won't be so easy to control next time.

  It Ain't Over 'til it's Over

  Once an identity thief has control over the victim's email, phone communication and calendar, the opportunities for exploitation expand exponentially. If the right care is taken to delete traces, it is extremely difficult for the victim to see that their privacy has been compromised. The reasons why hackers are caught are, as with most other criminals, motive, greed and impatience. Where the motive is obscure and the criminal is in no hurry, they are unlikely to be identified.

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

  'He loves it. Thank you, Virginia. It's just perfect.'

  Sam was concentrating hard on his pasta, making sure it didn't stick to the pan.

  'Don't forget, Sam. Tu sei Italiano. The pasta must be perfectly al dente.'

  'Va bene, mummy.' He looked up at me, still stirring furiously. 'It andenty. Look.'

  I picked up two plastic bowls and held them out, 'Is it ready? Can I have some? What about some for Granny too?'

  'OK,' he said with a big grin. 'It ready now.'

  Sam's lips were scrunched up with intense concentration as he carefully filled two bowls with the spaghetti before spooning on the sauce. 'All gone,' he said eventually.

  I handed Virginia her bowl and we both dutifully pretended to eat, making slurping noises and loudly praising the food and the perfect cooking of the spaghetti. Sam, however, had moved on to whatever he had in the oven and was no longer interested; we left him to it and joined Rupert and John on the patio where they were hoarding the champagne and smoked salmon blinis. The late spring sunshine was just high enough to climb over our neighbour's wall and warm up our garden, blossoms were everywhere, and it felt as though summer was right around the corner.

  John was one of those men who didn't have much time for babies. I don't think he saw the point of them, but he'd begun to become much more engaged as Sam started to become a little person. When Virginia and I walked over, he was completely absorbed in watching Sam cooking away happily in his new kitchen and a big, proud granddad smile lit up his face.

  'So, he likes it then?' he said. 'It looks as though he's well on his way to winning MasterChef already.'

  'Yes, he's a little star,' I replied, picking up my glass. 'It's a brilliant present, thank you both. He's going to have so much fun with it.'

  Winning Masterchef! I didn't understand why everything had to be so bloody competitive all of the time. Virginia was the same and Rupert not much better. I wasn't anti-competition as such, not someone who wanted to avoid sports days and ban ability streaming in schools, but there should be limits and I wasn't convinced it was necessary for every single activity in life to be part of a Darwinian challenge.

  Luckily for Sam, I was his mum and, if I had anything to do with it, he'd learn to keep all of these things in perspective. That bein
g said, I did have every intention of making sure Sam learnt to make the best Italian food in Oxford before I was done with him. I'd always felt that a small dose of hypocrisy never hurt anyone.

  'I'd like to propose a toast,' said Rupert, with a little cough. 'Well, actually, two toasts. The first one is obvious. Happy second birthday, Sam. It's been a great year and here's hoping the next one will be even better.'

  'Happy birthday, Sam. Cheers.' We all lifted our glasses in his direction, but he was totally oblivious to the wave of well-wishing, and much more concerned with how he was going to fit his fire engine into the oven.

  Rupert continued, turning to his parents. 'The second toast is equally important and I wanted to say how lovely it is to have you so close by and to thank you for all of your help and support over the past two years. To family!'

  He was clearly relieved that his parents had got the birthday present right as relationships, especially with Virginia, were still strained. Something had changed during the dark period which I'd been through after Sam was born. I'd been back to normal for over a year but there was still a carefulness between us which persisted like a stubborn stain.

  I couldn't put my finger on what was driving it, but I had this gut feeling I couldn't trust her, and I suspected she felt the same way about me. It made for an undercurrent of tension which was always tugging away beneath the oh-so-civilised surface.

  Rupert's dad was OK, but he lived in such a different world that I never found spending time with him particularly relaxing either. We seemed to drift inexorably towards topics of conversation which were totally alien to me. Not only when he was ranting on about some amazing pheasant shoot he'd been on, or a clever acquisition which had made them squillions in fees. Even when we were on my home turf, politics, I soon realised there was no point in trying to open up a debate.

  I suppose I was no more likely to agree with John's point of view than he was with mine, but at least I was always ready to revisit things and hear the pros and cons one more time. In any case, I was moderating some of my more extreme views now I was looking at the world from a mother's perspective.

  It's easy enough, in theory at least, to fight for something which goes against your own interests if you believe you're fighting for a greater good. When you have children, however, it seems that you instantly lose the right or ability to do anything which is in conflict with their interests. We think we're so sophisticated, civilised and intelligent but we're not so different from most animals when push comes to shove.

  John was politically informed in his own way but stunningly intransigent. The only slight chink in his armour had been during the 2014 election when a few of his shooting friends had started supporting Nigel Farage and UKIP. That was a step too far for John and, in the process of distancing himself from them, he was forced to challenge some of his own dogmatic beliefs – especially on immigration.

  It was only a momentary chink in his armour, however, and it didn't take long to close that up. A tweak here, a tweak there, tighten a few straps of self-justification and everything was back as it should be.

  Still, he wasn't a bad man and we're all made from different cloth. I probably needed to be a bit more tolerant and accepting. Something to work on going forward.

  'So, Fabiola. You've got yourself a job, I hear?' he said. 'Back to publishing?'

  'Yes,' I replied. 'I'm going to be an assistant editor at Oxford University Press. It's the same job I applied for a year and a half ago, back when ... well, you remember?'

  'Yes, of course I do, but it's water under the bridge isn't it? No point in dwelling on the past. My mother always used to say you should never waste your time on things you can't control, and let's face it you can't control the past, can you?'

  'Your mother was a wise lady by the sounds of it, although choosing what to worry about is often easier said than done,' I said with a smile.

  'When do you start?'

  'I start in two weeks. I'll be working three days a week to begin with – for the first six months or so – and then we'll see.'

  'That sounds wonderful,' said John. 'And Sam's off to school?'

  'Well, I'd hardly call it school. We've managed to get him a place at this wonderful little Montessori nursery in Summertown. We were very lucky as they'd had a cancellation on the day we went in to visit, and the whole set-up is perfect for him. I think it's a great opportunity for him to have a chance to play more with kids of his own age.'

  Virginia had been talking quietly to Rupert in the corner, but I wasn't slightly surprised her bat-ears had picked up on our conversation.

  'Of course, it's totally unnecessary, darling,' she said, stepping towards us. 'I've told Fabiola and Rupert a hundred times I'd be happy to look after Sam rather than sending him off to be with strangers all day. The poor little thing's only two years old, after all ... and it's so expensive.'

  This was a familiar subject and, as on previous occasions, I resisted pointing out that a few hours a day of healthy play and socialising at a Montessori nursery was somewhat less traumatic than being sent away to boarding school for months at a time.

  Rupert had been packed off to board full-time at some place in Hampshire a few weeks before his seventh birthday and, even when he came back to Oxford to go to St Edwards, he'd still been a full-time boarder, including weekends. This was despite the fact that his family home was less than ten miles away from the school. Another conversation which wasn't worth having, but Sam would be going to boarding school over my dead body.

  'Come on, Mummy,' said Rupert. 'We've been over this a million times. We both really appreciate how kind you are to offer to help even more than you already do, but we think it'll be a good experience for him.'

  'But he's only a baby, darling,' said Virginia.

  'He's two years old. There'll probably be a few tears to begin with, but he'll get over those and then he'll have a great time. You've been to see the school. Tell Dad what a lovely place it is.'

  'Well,' said Virginia. 'I must admit that it did seem to be clean and well run but ...'

  'No need for 'buts',' said Rupert. 'He starts next week and I'm sure he'll be fine.'

  Rupert's parents stayed on for another hour or so until Sam went down for his nap, but I continued to be annoyed with Virginia until well after they'd gone.

  'Can she never, ever drop anything?' I said to Rupert. 'Thanks for stepping in, but it's unbelievable how she can go on and on about things. Has she always been like this?'

  'Sorry, 'fraid so,' he said. 'I did warn you.'

  'I know you did, but she's way worse than you said she was. I seriously think she's hoping Sam doesn't get on at nursery, so she can charge in on a bloody white horse and save the day ... And then tell us we should've listened to her in the first place.'

  'That's probably taking it a tad far, don't you think?' said Rupert, cheeks flushing vermillion. 'I mean she's doing her best. She's actually been very helpful and anyway there's a limit to how much you get to lay into my mother without pissing me off.'

  'Fair enough, sweetie pie,' I slumped down on the sofa. 'I didn't mean to go on about it. I'm tired, and I guess I'm a little stressed about sending him off myself, not to mention starting work the week after.'

  The Lighting of a Fire

  Most modern smartphone spyware can set filters and automatic flags to respond to pre-programmed actions of interest. These may be notifications when the victim is near a particular location, automatic diversion of specified incoming phone calls or setting recordings to be activated in certain places. This focus avoids excessive battery consumption, which is the only real risk the software might be detected.

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

  Sam was on excellent form as we walked down to the nursery. As his speech developed and he began to build up a real vocabulary, he'd developed the habit of standing still before any serious pronouncement and putting on his most serious
face.

  He would then lift one hand up, index finger pointing skyward like a Roman senator in the forum, before sharing his few words of wisdom with us. Invariably, we'd only manage to hold serious faces for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. Like almost all two-year-old games, it could be repeated ad infinitum and, to be fair, was funny every time.

  The slight issue was that the frequent oratorical stops meant slow progress down the street and eventually, we had to find an acceptable distraction. So, after about fifty 'one, two, three, wheeee' swings, we'd arrived at the gates. It was lucky Rupert had taken the morning off, as one-parent swinging just doesn't stack up.

  We weren't too worried about him fitting in at nursery. He'd been to a few playgroups over the past year and, when it wasn't raining, we went to a nearby playground where he had a few little friends of the same age. I suspect we were more worried about how we'd feel as we walked away for the first time. He was still so small.

  The cloakroom inside the main door was a scene of complete chaos; twenty or so tiny children were running about randomly or sitting on the floor, some crying, some laughing, most shouting at the tops of their voices. In the midst of this were almost twice the number of giant parents, trying to help or to get out of the way, all of this without treading on one of the small bodies which were spread out everywhere.

  It didn't take us long to change Sam's shoes and put his bag into a locker. We managed to escape without treading on anybody's children and went inside to his new classroom. His age group were red squirrels and there was a huge, bright-red squirrel painted onto the classroom door. Five or six children were already inside with the teacher and I knelt down in front of him.