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

by Tony Salter

  I arrived in the car park of the Bell in Odell village. The pub had closed hours earlier and there was no-one around. I snatched up my bag and set off through the black-iron kissing gate at the far end of the car park. I think I would have been able to find my way even without the moonlight but it was easier with fate on my side.

  As I stepped onto the footpath, I could hear the sound of my phone ringing from the car behind me. I would have given so much to be able to hear Rupert's voice once more but couldn't trust myself. My heart was melting already as I thought about how distraught he must be, but I needed to be strong.

  The phone rang and rang again but with each step forward into the wood, the sound faded until, from one moment to the next, it was gone. After that, there was silence apart from the soft crunch of my feet cracking and crushing the twigs and leaves underfoot.

  Nonno's Oak sat in the centre of the clearing as it had for almost a thousand years, regal in its squat permanence; the grace and beauty of youth now compressed into the solid, trustworthy girth of a beloved patriarch. Cold, clean moonbeams turned the dewdrops into quicksilver pearls which I crushed regretfully underfoot.

  Spider cracks appeared in my resolve, spreading out with each misty breath. There was not much time.

  I opened my bag and carefully laid out the contents. The smooth, metallic curves of the gas cylinder seemed alien and wrong as they sank into the soft, ink-black leaf mould. Everything was out of place and out of time. I checked to be certain nothing was missing and sat down.

  My back pressed against the hard bark and I looked up through the branches to the black velvet mantle above. Although I wasn't ready to pray, there was still a chance God might spare me a little forgiveness and understanding. God, Rupert and Sam; I wanted their forgiveness but, most of all, I wanted them to look out for each other.

  Hopefully, I would have the chance to make my peace with my father, my mother and Nonno face-to-face. Or not. I would know soon enough.

  After one final eyes-squeezed-tight attempt to send a mental message though the night to Sam, it was time.

  I was ready.

  So Little Time

  'She's stopped moving,' I say. 'Two minutes now. In the same place. She's in a village called Odell.'

  'I know it. How long 'til we're there?' says Rupert.

  'About twenty minutes. Take the next left in half a mile.'

  'Call her,' he says. 'The number's under Fabi.'

  I let it ring and ring until I hear her beautiful voice. 'Pronto, this is Fabiola. I can't get to the phone. Please leave a message.'

  'There's no reply,' I say. 'I've tried six times, and I'm only getting voicemail.'

  'Try again,' says Rupert, the rising panic in his voice matched by the engine scream as he throws the BMW into a succession of blind corners.

  I try her again and again but I know no-one will pick up. 'She must've left the phone in the car,' I say. 'It still hasn't moved and she's not answering.'

  'Shit,' says Rupert. 'Shit, shit, shit.'

  We pull into the pub car park less than ten minutes later, gravel flying everywhere as though desperate to escape from our burning tyres. There is only one other car and it's empty.

  Rupert is out and running towards a big sign and map at the back of the car park. 'Come on,' he says. 'I know where she's going. There's an old oak tree her grandfather used to take her to all the time. That's where she'll be.'

  It's two-thirty in the morning; the moon is full and we don't need a torch, but I'm not much of a runner and struggle to keep up. Everything that's happening seems surreal and I have to keep reminding myself that Fabiola might be in trouble. That's enough to keep me going and to push one leg in front of the other.

  Rupert is driving us forwards – we've probably not been running for longer than ten minutes, but it seems much longer – and he still manages to shout out Fabiola's name every few seconds.

  There is no reply.

  I am almost out of reserves when we stumble out into a large clearing with a massive fat-trunked tree brooding at the centre. This must be it, but where's Fabiola?

  Rupert is in front of me at the foot of the tree. He's bending over a figure, crying out over and over, 'Fabiola. Wake up. Wake up ... Please wake up.'

  As I reach them, I push him roughly aside, shouting 'Out of my way, Rupert. I'm a nurse.' I know that seconds count when someone's unconscious and roughly pull the plastic bag away from her beautiful, already-slack face, drag her to flatter ground and start to give her CPR.

  In between breaths, I issue instructions. 'Call an ambulance. Now,' I tell the paralysed Rupert. 'When you've done that, tell me what's in the gas cylinder. And remember to breathe. You're no use to me if you pass out.'

  I know in my heart we're too late but I keep going until the ambulance arrives. If I don't stop the cycle of breaths and compressions, I can hold back the crashing waves of anguish which are rearing over me. Hold back the pain for a little longer.

  After the paramedics have taken charge, I walk over to Rupert, who is standing rigid as a telegraph pole, blank eyes staring down in frozen catatonia.

  'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I tried as hard as I could, but we were too late.'

  Too Late

  No-one should ever underestimate the consequences of identity theft. Within our complex civilisation, we have become dependent on a huge range of connections and links to the systems and networks which form the backbone of our world. Our status within these networks legitimises our position within society, controls our ability to communicate with others on all levels, and authorises us to transact within the network. If this status is too badly damaged, we cannot function within society and the foundations of our existence and self-belief may collapse.

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

  I hadn't known what to expect. I suppose I'd always had this clichéd preconception that dying would be warm and fluffy. Gently slipping into cotton wool clouds or maybe enveloped in pain-numbing ice water; Leonardo di Caprio sinking blue-faced, but smiling, into the welcoming depths. Until we face it ourselves, we can never know and it is all too human to imagine a gentle and dignified step from existence to ... what?

  With my good Catholic upbringing, and considering the self-inflicted nature of my departure, I was hoping God would give me the benefit of the doubt and the transition would be from existence to simple non-existence rather than the fire and brimstone alternative.

  We imagine what suits us and what softens the fear of our looming mortality, so the last thing I expected was the pain. Not quite physical, nor long and drawn out, but a universal lifetime of agony condensed into a single moment as everything which had been 'me' was simultaneously wrenched from each cell of my body. Billions of tiny rips, sundering my existence from the useless, already-cooling flesh which no longer even contained the memory of who I'd once been.

  In that moment of exquisite anguish, I understood everything. Only an instant, my final flash of time, but an instant of infinite duration burning through me in perfect magnesium whiteness. It was all clear now. I'd been right all along, I hadn't lost my mind. Everything that had happened to me was deliberate and malicious and I knew who was responsible. So obvious, so stupid, I should have trusted my instincts. I understood everything now. If only ...

  Part 2

  Desiderio delle tue mani chiare

  nella penombra della fiamma:

  sapevano di rovere e di rose;

  di morte. Antico inverno.

  ___________________________

  Desire of your hands bright

  in the penumbra of fire:

  they knew of oak-trees, roses,

  death. Ancient winter.

  Salvatore Quasimodo

  The World Keeps Turning

  When the world's banks decided to disable all online banking software in the autumn of 2025, a fundamental pillar of society started to crumble. Advances in crack-hack technology w
ere making all existing forms of identity protection highly vulnerable and concerns about personal online security soared.

  Global infrastructures had become almost completely reliant on internet-based interconnectivity. Without the ability to protect identity and to control online transactions, forecasters were predicting that the world's existing networks – in particular banking and online retail – would collapse within less than five years.

  The economic and social consequences of this implosion were predicted to cost the global economy over 25 trillion dollars per year for the foreseeable future.

  Luckily for us, those forecasters didn't take into account Julie Martin and Pulsar.

  "Pulsar. Behind the Firewall" Sam Blackwell, Insight Business Press 2040

  I walked out onto the terrace, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and stretching lazily; I could feel each muscle in my body move as I rolled my shoulders backwards, a pleasant awareness rather than an ache. Julie insisted we ran at least 10k together every day and we combined that with strength training and an hour or more of yoga. I was in better shape than I'd ever been.

  Picking up a coffee cup, scratching the back of my neck, arching off the springboard into the pool, even taking the few steps out into the morning sunshine, every movement reminded me of my physical place in the world. I felt alive and in control.

  It was already ten o'clock and the air was warm and silky. From the terrace, I could see the whole of the Cap in front of me, everything in its place, green and manicured. It must have taken so much effort to create such effortless perfection.

  'Sam? Sam? Are you there?' I could hear Julie's voice through the French doors which led to the bathroom. 'Be an angel and come and keep me company while I do my nails.'

  'OK. I'll just grab a coffee. D'you want one?'

  'No thanks. I'm caffeined out for now.'

  Our suite had a different style of antique Nespresso machine in every room, each one balanced by designer racks of coffee capsules and elegant cups. As there were fifteen rooms in the suite – yes I'd counted – someone had enjoyed themselves helping to make a certain handsome actor a little richer. He must have been eighty years old, but could still be found, sipping a coffee, on billboards at every airport. As he had been since before I was born.

  Julie knew him well apparently, but I was yet to have the honour. I had a glimmer of a suspicion they had been a little more than friends once upon a time, but Julie never let anything slip unless she meant to, and something like that wasn't going in the book under any circumstances.

  I picked a gold capsule as always. Sumatran Kopi Luwak was the most exclusive option and I couldn't resist the idea of paying extortionate sums to drink coffee made from Indonesian wildcat poo. I should have probably taken my jet-set lifestyle a bit more seriously but couldn't do it. Too much of my mother in me perhaps?

  Julie was sitting on a chaise longue in the main bathroom. Dressed in a light silk wrap, chin resting on one raised leg, her focus was absolute; as with everything else she did, perfection was the only option. Her vermillion toenails would be flawless.

  I stood in the open doorway, consciously reminding my lungs that I needed to start breathing again. Seeing her like this never failed to stun me for a second or two.

  I couldn't believe my luck. She was such a class act and I struggled to imagine what I'd done to deserve her. Most of my girlfriends before had been shallow, boring simperers, glued to their phones half the time, and already worrying about husbands, babies and country houses.

  Julie was nothing like that; she knew what she wanted, had no qualms about asking for it and, if she'd ever failed to get it, I'd certainly not seen any evidence. A bit of a challenge to my male ego at times but it was worth it on so many levels. And tonight was going to be the cherry on top of all of the sweet, sticky icing.

  She patted the soft cushion and I sat next to her, my back pressed against her raised thigh, looking out over the perfect blue of the Mediterranean. She wrapped her free arm around my waist and absent-mindedly ran her fingertips up and down my stomach while toenail after toenail fell victim to the strokes of her brush.

  I found myself getting hard even though we'd made love only half an hour earlier. There was something about this woman that made everything erotic; the simplest of activities could be touched with a sexual undertone and delicately, illicitly covered with a thin, translucent veneer of excitement, danger and risk.

  I wasn't a total moron and there had always been a part of me which knew it wouldn't last, but I'd said that when we first got together and that was more than a year ago. We might last another year? Two? I didn't know and I didn't actually care. Perhaps all of the yoga was getting to me; I was quite content to embrace the here-and-now and leave tomorrow to worry about itself.

  'Excited?' she said, removing the offending fingers from my stomach to pick up the bottle of nail varnish. God, even the way she slid the bright, glistening brush back into the bottle was erotic. And the way she was slowly screwing on the lid ...

  I looked down at my lap and smiled at her.

  'Not that kind of excited, idiot,' she laughed. 'Are you excited about tonight?'

  'What do you think?' I said. 'I can't believe it's really happening. I hope you're pleased. And a little excited too?'

  'Of course I am. You know we wouldn't be here if I wasn't. You've done an amazing job.'

  'Team effort,' I said, standing to let her swing her legs round.

  'Maybe so, but you'll take all the credit tonight. I insist.' She stood up, wrapped her hands behind her head and stretched. 'I'll have that coffee now. But none of the cat-shit stuff. Something Italian.'

  Glistening Prizes

  Julie Martin was already an internationally recognised personal security expert when the systems started to break apart. She was well known on the conference circuit and her 2015 book, 'How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World.' had already become a key text. But when, in early 2023, she started to publish articles predicting a global security meltdown within two years, most people thought she had lost her touch.

  Her predictions would prove eerily precise and almost all of the world's foremost experts – including the NSA – were left with egg on their face. Demands for her consultancy services soared and she could have charged astronomical fees. But Julie had other plans.

  Pulsar Plc was already eighteen months old by then and, when yesterday's dog's dinner hit the fan, both Julie and Pulsar were ready.

  "Pulsar. Behind the Firewall" Sam Blackwell, Insight Business Press 2040

  The room fell silent as the lights went up on the speaker's lectern. The small, fat man in a dinner jacket waddled out on stage and up to the microphone. I turned to Julie and whispered, a little too loudly. 'Now I understand why it's called a penguin suit.'

  'Shhh,' she replied. 'Behave yourself for once. You're playing with the grown-ups tonight. He's a lovely man, and not everyone can be tall, dark and handsome. I still bet he kicks off with the Frankfurt joke though.'

  'Meiner damen und herren. Hertzlig willkommen in Frankfurt,' said the penguin, right on cue. The audience responded with polite laughter although the joke had apparently worn thin about ten years earlier. It wasn't even a joke actually – not even worthy of being called an in-joke. Nothing remotely funny about it at all.

  It was my first time but, apparently people had been saying 'willkommen in Frankfurt' since 2030 when the book fair moved from Frankfurt. As far as I could tell, that was it. Simply a reference to the fact that the book fair had once been held somewhere else. People were strange to say the least.

  'No seriously guys,' the witty penguin continued. 'Welcome to Cannes and welcome to this Insight Business Press special launch event. I am one hundred per cent certain neither Pulsar nor Julie Martin need any introduction here. Or anywhere for that matter.' He laughed and waved his stubby fin in Julie's direction while the audience craned their sheep-like necks and filled the room with a satisfyingly impressed sotto vo
ce murmuring.

  'But you probably don't know much about this evening's main man and, before we tuck in to some delicious champagne and canapés, I'm delighted to introduce you to the author of our new bestseller, 'Pulsar: Behind the Firewall'. He's one of the most talented young biographers I've had the pleasure to work with and I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of him in the future. Ladies and Gentlemen, Sam Blackwell.'

  A nudge from Julie and I was walking out into the lights. I'd always been confident, but I'd never had to do anything like this and was certain I would freeze and clam up – simply stand there with my mouth open, tongue half out and my village idiot eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. My throat was suddenly as dry as if I were on the third course of a dry cracker eating contest. It was going to be a disaster.

  I reached the lectern, shook hands with Dieter Holzmann, who looked a lot less like a penguin at close quarters, and turned to the microphone.

  'Good evening, everybody. Thank you all for coming.' The relief of being able to speak surged through me and I took a couple of deep breaths to stop myself leaping uncontrollably from 'can't speak' to 'can't stop'. 'I'm not going to say too much, so the champagne won't have to wait for long.' I looked across at Julie who had a big, proud grin on her face and was struck, not for the first time, by the fairy-tale impossibility of my situation. It's such a human frailty, the fact that, if we are unbelievably lucky and things are going too well, we can't stop ourselves from looking for the catch. Too good to be true.