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

by Tony Salter

  'I agree,' my dad said. 'You know I don't read a lot, but I thought it was great. I actually wanted to know what happened next all the way through, even though I sort of knew already. You've made a real thriller out of it.'

  'Thanks guys,' I said. 'Better than any poncey critics' reviews.'

  My dad hadn't quite finished. 'My only issue is that it's still quite difficult to pin down quite what this woman you're seeing is really like. She doesn't feature much even though the book's actually all about her. Why doesn't she want to meet me? What's she got to hide? I mean, I don't think I've ever even seen a photo of her. Certainly none with the two of you together.'

  The subject of meeting Julie was top of the agenda every time I saw Dad or Uncle Daz and I knew it would be Granny's first question when I saw her later on. I understood why, but going on and on about it wouldn't change anything.

  'You know it's not that she refuses to meet you as such,' I said. 'I'm not going to suggest it to her because I know she'll find a reason to say no. As for what she's like, she didn't want much about her in the book and she's got a thing about photos, but Julie's exactly what you'd imagine her to be – unbelievably bright, always gets her own way and incredibly charming when she chooses to be.'

  'Sounds a bit too good to be true,' said my dad. 'What's the catch?'

  'I don't know yet, but these last two years have been the best anyone could imagine. I'm not kidding myself though. It won't last forever and I'm sure she'll get bored and find a replacement Sam one of these days.'

  'Still sounding like a warm, healthy relationship of equals, sure enough,' said Daz, always happy to stick an oar in.

  'OK. I know how it looks,' I said. 'But I'm not fifteen years old. I'm twenty-seven and I've got my eyes wide open. What's the worst that can happen? She gets bored with me and dumps me. She might give me a nice Rolex as a leaving present. I can then get a normal life, meet a girl of my own age, sell the watch, find a normal job, etcetera, etcetera.'

  'Slum it with the rest of us, you mean?' said Daz.

  'Exactly. The way I see it, I've still got plenty of time. I don't know what I did to deserve this lottery win, but I'm not going to throw the ticket away out of spite or principle. That would be a bit thick, wouldn't it?'

  'Fair enough,' Dad said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. 'You've made your point. We're probably just jealous of you gallivanting around while we still have to go to work every day.'

  Daz stared at the two of us for long seconds as though we were chimps in a zoo. 'I'm not bloody jealous,' he said eventually.

  Once we'd used up all the packing boxes we had, Daz left for London, leaving Dad and me to fiddle about with a few last bits and pieces and take some photos. There's something about a house where all of the personal items have been removed. The furniture's still there, the structure and layout haven't changed, but the soul has gone and what's left is ... well it's just a house.

  As I wandered around with the camera, I couldn't help wondering if there was a point in time when everything changed. A single moment when it ceased to be a home – one last item packed, a picture or photo wrapped in cream paper, taking the bins out for the last time. Depressing, pointless thoughts.

  The good thing, of course, was that it made it easier to say goodbye. By the time we'd boxed up all of the personal stuff, I was ready.

  I saw Dad coming down the stairs carrying the shoebox he'd been holding earlier. He had the strangest look on his face. It wasn't only that he was sad – although he was definitely on the edge – there was something else, a guilty shiftiness. His look reminded me of how I'd felt when he caught me and my mates smoking a joint when we were thirteen. I'd known straight away that I'd crossed a line; he'd always been such a cool Dad and I'd stomped all over his trust. He hadn't blown up or screamed at me like the other parents. He hadn't needed to.

  Dad felt bad about something now and what he was holding was important.

  'Come and sit down,' he said, carrying the box over to the table. 'This is for you, but I need to tell you a few things first.'

  I sat down at the table opposite him and waited. I had no idea what was going on, but this was clearly a big deal for him and he was struggling to get started.

  'You know how your mother died ... ?'

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How could I forget? I hadn't been told the truth until I was fifteen and I could taste the anger even now, sharp and metallic on the roof of my mouth. How could she do it? And how could he lie to me all my life? There were so many questions and most of them didn't have answers. No-one had been safe from my self-pitying rage.

  It had dragged on for months and it took a lot of sessions with a counsellor before I could finally understand why my father had taken so long to tell me. I don't think I ever agreed that it was the right decision, but I did eventually accept that it was made for the right reasons.

  As for my mother, I mourned her properly for the first time, but I never forgave her for leaving me and still didn't expect I ever would.

  'Well, there are some things which I haven't ever talked about. I've wanted to, but I've never been able to figure out how.'

  I felt my shoulders tighten and leant forward across the table. 'Dad, if you're going to throw me another curve ball after all of these years, I'll ...'

  '... No, it's nothing like that,' he said, still calm but raising his voice. 'Let me finish. It's about that time. The time right before it happened.'

  'All right,' I said, leaning back into my chair. 'Go on.'

  'The thing is ... the thing is ... well, I think I could have done things differently. I'm afraid she thought I'd given up on her.' His voice cracked and he covered his mouth and nose with his hand for a moment before continuing. '... and perhaps I did for a short while. I should have known. I should have been there for her, and maybe ...'

  He slumped forward onto the table, head in his hands, shoulders softly shaking out his pain and guilt.

  I got up and knelt next to him, both arms wrapping him up tightly. 'It's OK Dad,' I said gently. 'It's not your fault. You can't blame yourself. Mum took the decision on her own. I'll never understand why, but it wasn't your fault.' We stayed like that for a long time before I felt able to sit down again.

  'Thanks, Sam,' he said eventually. 'I don't think I'll ever change the way I think about it, but I'm glad I got it off my chest.' He looked up at me. 'She would've been so proud of you, you know?'

  'So what's in the mystery box, then?' I asked, desperate to change the subject.

  'Well, that's the other thing I need to tell you. Your Mum kept a diary. She started it on the day we brought you back from hospital and wrote in it every day.'

  'Bloody hell,' I said. 'What does it say?'

  'I've got no idea. I've never read it. I know it sounds pathetic but I had you to look after and a job to get back to and then I couldn't face opening up old wounds. I guess I'm afraid she wrote about me not being there for her.'

  'One way or the other, it wouldn't have been easy reading,' I said. 'Is that what's in the box, then?'

  'Yes. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. A part of me knew I needed to give it to you one day.'

  He pushed the box across the table. I still hadn't taken in the enormity of the situation and looked at the dull, green lid for a while, unsure what to do next. Then I lifted the lid carefully and put it down next to the box.

  'Oh, my God.' I had no idea what was written inside, but even looking at the two, smooth brown leather volumes, black-ribbon-tied with neat bows, sent shivers down my spine. 'And nobody's opened these since ...'

  '... Nope,' he said. 'I found them in the box twenty-five years ago and they've never been touched.'

  I reached in and took out a chunky slab of aluminium and glass. 'And what's this?' I asked him.

  'That's her phone,' he replied. 'State-of-the art back then. Cost me a fortune.'

  I put the phone back in the box and picked up one of the diaries. The leather was soft and warm
in my fingers.

  'I don't know what to say,' I said eventually. 'Do you think I should read them?'

  'It's up to you,' he said. 'They're yours now. You can do what you want with them. For what it's worth, my advice is that you give yourself a couple of weeks to think about it before doing anything.' He managed a smile and a chuckle. 'Maybe talk it over with your wise, old girlfriend?'

  'Very funny,' I replied, still reeling from the revelation that I might now be able to understand what my mother really felt about me and why she did what she did. 'But I think you're right. I'll wait before I do anything.'

  I didn't need any time at all to think about whether I would discuss it with Julie. There was no way, not in a million years. We didn't have that sort of relationship.

  Take the Money or ...

  Matching cardio-rhythms quickly using small and noisy samples had always been a stumbling block. Julie Martin's most significant insight in those early days was to recognise that the problem had already been solved.

  Almost twenty years earlier a team of academics from MIT had developed a unique waveform-matching technology to power a music-recognition business. When Julie Martin approached them, they were in financial difficulties and she was able to acquire an exclusive global license for matching cardio-rhythms – fully protected by their patents – for a minimal upfront payment and a small on-going license fee.

  By the time the dust had settled, they were making much more from this licence than from their entire music business. It was, however, only a tiny fraction of the billions being made by Julie Martin and Pulsar.

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

  I didn't beat my dad at tennis the next day. I knew I wouldn't, even though I was younger, faster and much fitter. I'd also been having top-level coaching at a string of five star hotels while Julie was off at some important meeting or other. My game was strong and I could compete well at club A-team level or above.

  Fat lot of use that was against Dad. Even before we got on the court, he was inside my head and my game fell apart, point by point. There was nothing pretty about his technique; he simply had the knack of putting the ball in a place where you didn't want it to be, spinning in a way which didn't suit you. I couldn't stop myself from getting frustrated and soon started blasting balls out of the back of the court, over swinging at everything and becoming tighter and tighter.

  'You should relax more,' said Dad, a big, smug grin plastered all over his face.

  That, of course, made it much, much worse. 'You just focus on not having a coronary, old man,' was the best I could manage as I walloped another shot into the net.

  'Hah! If you can't even manage to get the ball in play, I doubt I'll even break a sweat. Haven't you been having lots of super-expensive coaching, courtesy of you-know-who?'

  I'd missed being home and having my Dad take the piss out of me. He'd started when I was tiny. 'Good training for the real world' he would always say, and almost nothing was taboo. I'm not sure I enjoyed it so much for the first few years, but I gradually developed a second skin which was, of course, his plan all along.

  It wasn't a hard, rigid shell which locked in as much as it kept out; it was more of a slippery, semi-permeable membrane which allowed friendly, and not-so-friendly, banter – such an integral part of the relationships between rutting young bucks – to slide past with minimal damage. It didn't work so well with girls for some reason. They seemed to be able to poke their way straight through without difficulty.

  Not that I was enjoying being thrashed at tennis by an old man with no style, but there were some consolations. As we shook hands and walked off court, I could see how happy it had made him to keep his undefeated record intact. He wasn't ready to concede anything in the hierarchy stakes and I wasn't in any hurry for our roles to change either. The other, and most important, consolation was that no-one who knew me had been watching.

  We went into the kitchen, where my grandmother had already poured two cold beers.

  'Hi Granny,' I said, giving her a hug. 'Feeling better?'

  'Oh, I'm fine dear. This thing with my heart just sometimes makes me feel a bit woozy. Did you win?'

  'He's not there yet,' said my Dad, slapping me on the back. 'The record stands.'

  'Oh, you're insufferable, Rupert,' said Granny. 'You've always been so ridiculously competitive. Can't you let the poor boy win for once?'

  'The poor boy is twenty-seven years old,' I said. 'And he doesn't need a pity win. Anyway, I'm way better than Dad is now. The thing is that he cheats and uses some sort of witchcraft ...'

  'Cheers,' said my dad, lifting his glass. 'Good game. I enjoyed that.'

  I took a deep swig of my beer, thirsty enough to delight in the cold, hoppy lager tang at the back of my throat. 'Cheers,' I replied. 'Well played, you old git. Next time though...'

  I'd agreed to meet Julie back at her flat before dinner, so needed to catch a train to London soon after lunch. Granny had made my favourite, roast pork, and, however ill she might have been feeling, it was spot on. The juices glistened as Dad carved and the golden crunch of the crackling was only matched by the equally golden crunch of the roast potatoes. Rich, steaming gravy with a jolt of lemon and sage, what more could anyone ask? The vegetables were window dressing and, as always, I got them out of the way quickly before concentrating on the main event. It was like a peg in time.

  Sunday lunch with Granny and Gramps had been an institution for my whole life. After Mum died, we rarely missed it and, even when life had become complicated by friends and girlfriends, it remained a priority. It was actually more likely I'd drag them along rather than miss out. I rarely heard complaints.

  The train was already moving out of the station as I put my bag up on the rack; the knowledge of what was inside the bag was like a hamster running around a wheel in my head, stupid pointy face grinning at me as its little legs pumped up and down and it squeaked out the same questions again and again. 'What did she write? Did she love me? Why did she leave?'

  My dad's advice was good and I was determined to wait for at least two weeks before making a decision – but two weeks of this? I'd be a nervous wreck. The only thing I could think of was to drown the little furry bastard in alcohol but I wasn't going to neck a couple of G&Ts on a Sunday afternoon train. That would be sinking too low.

  It would have to wait until dinner and, even then, I knew Julie would try and stop me. She hated it when I drunk too much and we always ended up fighting.

  That was fine for her but she didn't have a neurotic hamster in her head and I didn't want her knowing anything about the diary. What else was I supposed to do? I tried some of the meditation techniques I'd learned from the yoga teachers but, as I slowed my breathing and gathered in my thoughts, I was still left either with two diaries nestled in a box, a hyperactive wheel-spinning rodent or, worse now, an image of my mother smiling down at me.

  For some reason, I didn't want to take the box home with me. It seemed wrong. Was it because I worried my mother would disapprove of my relationship with Julie? That was ridiculous. She'd been dead for twenty-five years. It wasn't that. It was something about Julie. We'd only talked about my mother once and I can't say it brought out Julie's gentle, nurturing side.

  I'd let my thoughts spiral into a dark place, which happened from time to time, and I'd started to explain to Julie that it was because of what had happened to my mother. She hadn't given me a hug or said 'there, there'. She'd become angry, told me to grow up, and stormed out. I suspected she was touchy because she had her own parent issues but it left a mark anyway.

  I knew nothing about Julie's family; she lived for her work and, for all I knew, her parents were both dead. Let's face it, Julie and my mother would have been almost the same age, which was clearly a bit weird. It was becoming more and more obvious that I wasn't living in reality. I liked Julie a lot, and we had amazing times together, but now that the book was over, it was time to start thinking about the rest o
f my life.

  That stirred up another basket of rattlesnakes though. I couldn't see Julie reacting well to being dumped, and she would be an influential enemy to make. It would be easy for her to make a quiet call to a publisher or a newspaper. 'I hear you're thinking of taking on Sam Blackwell? I wouldn't if I were you. I can't go into details I'm afraid. As you would imagine, I don't normally make calls like this with regards to junior staff, but in this case, I felt I had to ...'

  No, it was absolutely clear. The decision had to be Julie's. I would figure out what to do over the next few months to make it happen. Getting pissed at whatever boring dinner we were going to tonight would be a start. At least the wine would be good. It always was.

  In the meantime, I needed a temporary solution for the diaries and the best I could manage was left luggage at Paddington. I bought a small wheelie bag and a padlock, packed the box away and checked it in. Hopefully keeping them at a distance would help to calm my overworked mind.

  It was almost six-thirty by the time I got back to the flat and, by then, I had a raft of missed calls and messages. To describe where I lived as a flat might have been be a bit of an understatement. I didn't like the way it was decorated – much too showy-offy – and I shuddered to think how much it might be worth, but as Knightsbridge penthouses go, I couldn't complain.

  'You said you'd be back by five,' Julie was not a happy bunny. 'You know how important this dinner is. We need to be out of here in ten minutes at the outside.'

  'OK. OK. I'm sorry. You know what the trains are like on a Sunday and I couldn't run off and desert my dad straight away. The move was a big deal for him. And for me actually.'

  'Fine, whatever. Just get ready.'