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

by Tony Salter

  Sam's being weird too. A couple of nights ago, he spilt coffee over my favourite table and all over the carpet. It's easily fixed and I don't actually care, but I expected him to be much more nervous and apologetic than he was. I've been noticing his change in attitude for weeks. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's thinking of breaking up with me, but doesn't quite know how to do it.

  Who the fuck does he think he is? I'll decide when we break up and how. He's my last link to Fabiola – I can still almost see her in his eyes when the light is right – and I'm not quite ready to sever that cord.

  It may be time soon though. The light isn't right so often these days. He's been fun and he's very pretty, but he's not his mother and he never will be.

  I've always been good at knowing when to cut my losses and move on. It's something visceral. I start to pump adrenalin all of the time, I can't sleep and have no appetite. I can feel it now, but I don't want to listen to the warning. Not yet.

  I love being Julie Martin. The Julie Martin. I love the power and the way people behave around me. It's as though I were a queen or an empress. Easy to sneer at, but you shouldn't knock it until you've tried it.

  There's plenty of money stashed away, but it's too late to build something like Pulsar again. I'm tired. Much as I hate to even think it, I'm too old and I wouldn't want to try to change my appearance so much again. Cosmetic science has its limits.

  If I leave now, I'll have to become a nobody, hiding away until the end. A lonely old woman, finding increasingly petty ways to vent her spinster bitterness on young, pretty shop girls and waitresses. I'm not ready for that.

  Why can't things stay as they are? Maybe my pumping urge to flee is a false alarm. It could be something hormonal or I could simply be imagining things.

  Who am I kidding? I've never been wrong before. I have to remember who I am. I can't trust anybody. I've known that all my life. If you trust people, they shit on your trust. Even Fabiola. I trusted her and she betrayed me. Look how far she was prepared to go to escape from me. That wasn't how it was supposed to end.

  And now it's starting again. The cycle of betrayal. Well, I'm always prepared and there are more ways to reward treachery than bags of silver.

  Thin Ice

  March 15th 2014

  I'm worried about Sam. Am I looking after him properly? It's not only the major disasters like the time I completely lost it in the car park. It's all the time. I'm distracted and nervous, waiting for something else to happen. I don't want that tension and edginess to affect him.

  Rupert says I'm fine. That it's normal for young mothers to feel this way. He's a sweetie, but what does he know about young mothers?

  I must try to get myself into a better place. I'm doing an exercise video every day while Sam has his nap and I'm taking much more care about my diet. That should help.

  Surely Julie must have figured out something was wrong? I found myself staring at her – not in a good way – and she caught me a couple of times. If I'd been a good actor, I wouldn't have been laughed out of drama lessons at school.

  To make it worse, my emotions were bouncing uncontrollably between terror and hatred and I felt like throwing up half the time. Under those circumstances, my loving toyboy role was an impossible part for anyone to play.

  I'd forgotten we were going to be away for the weekend which made things even more difficult; there was not going to be any easy way for me to escape, even for an hour or two. We'd been invited to some ridiculous, snobby Polo event in Newquay sponsored by one of the big champagne brands. It would be Monday at the earliest before I could swap the phone and Monday was an eternity away.

  The crazy thing was that Julie hated these events even more than I did, but still insisted that we went to them. Surely the point of having lots of power and money is to do what you want and never do what 'the man' tells you to do? I was obviously missing something.

  On the way down to Cornwall, she was in a foul mood and sat simmering silently for the first half hour.

  'I thought you said Professor Bukowski was happy to move ahead,' she snapped, as we turned onto the M4 at Chieveley.

  'I did. He is. Isn't he?'

  'He was yesterday but we were supposed to sign today and now he's delayed until next week.'

  'Why?'

  'Some bullshit excuse. Bloody academics – they always piss you around.'

  'What d'you think happened? He was totally up for it when we had lunch.'

  'How would I fucking know what happened? Look, I don't want to talk about it. Just get us there safely, will you. I'm going to catch up on some sleep.'

  That suited me. The less time we spent talking together the better. Fewer opportunities for me to screw up. My biggest worry was sex. I wasn't sure I'd be able to perform and I definitely didn't want to. In normal circumstances, I didn't have hang-ups about sex and, for me, it definitely didn't need to be associated with love, but the image of a fifteen-year-old Julie standing over her father's body clutching a dripping kitchen knife was going to be tough to banish.

  I always drove – using the autopilot was for wimps – and we had the new top-of-the-range Tesla which was a joy. My dad still rambled on about the old petrol classics, but he needed to try one of these. Gramps' old Aston Martin DB5 was still in the garage at Granny's. It was Dad's now, but since the ban on petrol cars came in, all he could do was polish it and run the engine every now and then.

  The Aston was a pretty car, but so was the Tesla and, with twice the horsepower and half the weight, the Tesla was much more of a beast. A shame I never got to take my dad for a spin, but it was too late now – unless I stole the car when I made my escape, which would probably not be the smartest move.

  Everyone still wanted electric cars to simulate the sound of classic petrol engines, and the roar we made as we flew westwards turned lots of heads. Seeing the beauty of the car turned them again in a classic double take and I smiled every time. I was going to miss this.

  Daz and I had met in a cafe earlier and he'd handed me a bag with the dummy phone inside. It wasn't only the phone in the bag. Liz had also included a sticky plastic sheet to pick up some of Julie's fingerprints, a small plastic bottle for a lock of hair or a fingernail clipping and a tiny, tiny tracking device no bigger than a match-head. I felt like a spy.

  Daz explained that the tracker was a back up in case Julie did a runner before we were ready to go to the police. I should try and attach it to something she wouldn't leave behind.

  Really? And, without their advice, I would have stuck it to a table. Did he think I was totally thick?

  I knew straight away where I'd put the tracker. Julie had a blue leather Mulberry purse which she'd had ever since I'd known her. It was old and shabby by her standards but she wouldn't consider replacing it. When I'd offered to buy her a new one soon after we met, she almost bit my head off. She then apologised – a rare occurrence in itself – saying, 'Sorry. It was a gift from an old friend and is special to me.'. I'll bet it was from Mum.

  Julie had been either in her office or together with me the whole afternoon so swapping the phone would have to wait until we got back. I'd probably have a chance to do the other spy stuff over the weekend but would have to see what opportunities came up.

  I only needed to hold it together for a few days. If Julie really had been responsible for Mum's death, I'd do whatever it took to make sure she didn't slip away again. As I looked at her sleeping next to me, I wondered if the best alternative would be to kill her myself. It wouldn't take much; I could just click off her seatbelt and drive us off the road.

  Knowing my luck, the airbags would save her and, in any case, the inboard computer would record my actions and the police would find out what had happened. Strangling then? Accidental drowning?

  But I wasn't a cold-hearted killer and Mum wouldn't have wanted me to throw my life away like that. No, the plan we had was a good one. I needed to man up and get on with it. It was only a couple of days.

  We arrived in Ne
wquay in the late afternoon with just enough time to change and go straight down to the beach for the welcome reception. All of the players and polo ponies were there to admire and it was a perfect midsummer's evening. The weather might have been expressly ordered for the throng of blazers, chinos and LBDs which littered the roped area.

  The scene made me think of my Gramps. He'd generally kept a low profile at home – much easier not to get in Granny's way – but he'd always had a dry sense of humour. Granny had a bad cliché habit and, whenever the weather was kind to us, she'd inevitably declare that 'the sun shines on the righteous ...' normally raising a glass of champagne in toast to our righteous good fortune and the sun's dutiful cooperation.

  Gramps would then lean over to me and Dad and, smiling all of the way, softly mutter '... and on the ungodly too.'. I don't think she ever heard.

  Looking over at the polo players, I could see that this might be a suitable pond for Julie to hook a replacement Sam when the time came. Young, fit, handsome and Argentinian would fit the bill.

  As always, Julie seemed to know everyone and we found ourselves chatting to Gonzalo Monteverde, the Captain of the Rest of the World team – Argentinian of course. Players from both teams were riding up and down the beach, showing off their horses and their trick shots.

  'You ride, don't you Sam?' said Julie.

  'I used to a bit as a kid,' I said. 'But nothing like these guys. And the ponies are amazing. It's as though they know exactly what the riders are thinking.'

  'Actually Sam,' said Gonzalo, in perfect English. 'It's almost the other way around. When we train a pony, we say it's ready when it plays for you rather than the opposite. The horse knows what to do, so you don't need to tell it.'

  'Incredible,' I said. 'I can totally believe that. I spent a couple of weeks on a hacienda just north of Buenos Aires when I was eighteen and we went out riding with the gauchos looking for new-born calves to check and brand. I loved it.'

  'It's a beautiful country. What did you think of our gauchos?' he asked. 'And their horses?'

  'I'd never seen anything like it. They were so skilful. And unbelievably fast. I think the bit that amazed me most was when they jumped off to check the calf. Their horses would stand there motionless, head down, waiting. Even if the calf's mother was upset and aggressive, the horses didn't spook or interfere. They waited patiently.'

  'And this is why our players and ponies are the best in the world,' he said, smiling proudly. 'As you'll see tomorrow.'

  'Could Sam have a try?' said Julie, with a mischievous grin.

  'Julie, please. It's been years...'

  'Of course he can,' said Gonzalo, ignoring my feeble protests. 'Just give me a moment.' He turned to one of the pony boys and gave him instructions in Spanish. 'Sam, if you could go with Juan please. He will sort some jodhpurs and a horse.'

  Well, it clearly amused Julie, but I wasn't so convinced. It had been years since I'd been on a horse and these animals were a long way from ordinary weekend hackers.

  My mother must have been looking out for me as the polo pony gave me a perfect excuse to avoid sex and generally behave awkwardly all weekend.

  His name was Chico. He was ten years old, almost fifteen hands, and a beautiful horse. Ten minutes after leaving Julie and Gonzalo, I found myself sitting in Chico's saddle and setting out across the sand, mallet in my hand, wondering if he was as confused as I was about what was happening.

  Apparently not. He spotted a group of players scrabbling over a ball about fifty yards away, and he was off. Chico obviously understood he was 'playing for me' but, if I wanted to stay connected to his back, I was also going to need to figure out what he was planning to do next.

  As we approached the barging, biting, stick-swinging melee, I was sure Chico would swing left to follow the ball. It was only later that I learnt that the obvious tactic was to wheel right and arc around to the back of the group.

  Unfortunately Chico was smart and well trained in polo tactics. I leant left and forward, Chico turned right and our short friendship was over.

  Falling from a horse is never fun but when it's unexpected and you're carrying a long wooden mallet, it's even less so. I lay on my back, not moving as I struggled to get breath back into my lungs and to take stock of how much damage I'd done.

  My head was all right, neck muscles a bit sore, but nothing seemed broken. I could move my fingers and toes which was good, but I wasn't sure about my back. It would probably be best to lie still for a bit longer in the damp sand.

  The medics were quick to arrive and told me to stay still. I would have nodded my agreement but my neck was throbbing and, by then, I'd gathered enough breath to grunt my understanding.

  While they were checking me over, Julie and Gonzalo rushed up panting.

  'Is he OK? I'm sorry Sam. It was my stupid idea,' said Julie, her wide eyes and breathless voice betraying genuine concern.

  'I'm sorry,' said Gonzalo. 'Chico is such a good horse. Predictable and smart. He always does the right thing. Why did you lean to the left, when it was obvious he would turn right?'

  I was half in shock, starting to feel the pain and could barely speak, so my response to Gonzalo played only in my mind. My nostrils probably flared a little, but that was all.

  Julie asked again, additional authority in her tone. 'Is he OK? Is he badly hurt?'

  The doctor held up one hand to silence her as he finished checking me over. 'He hasn't broken anything as far as I can see,' he said. 'He's definitely got some whiplash and I can't be sure he doesn't have any back injuries. We need to get him onto a board and off this wet ground. We'll know more in an hour or two.'

  The ambulance had arrived and they prepared to move me. The doctor told Julie to go back to the party and call in an hour and I disappeared in a flurry of blue lights and churning sand.

  It was only after they'd completed the full checks that I understood what an amazing stroke of luck the fall had turned out to be. I had a big, obvious neck brace to ensure sympathy and a severely sprained back which didn't actually hurt too much. But no-one else knew that. The doctor said I'd be fine in a few days and fully recovered in two weeks.

  I was able to go back to the party and play the wounded hero for half an hour or so before 'needing' to go back to our room for a rest. I found it easy to take on the martyr's role and spent most of the weekend on my own in the gorgeous hotel suite, abusing room service and watching Wimbledon.

  Sex was out of the question and, whenever Julie offered to stay to keep me company, I gave her my best pathetic smile. 'Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. You just go and have a good time.'

  A Simple Exchange

  May 15th 2015

  The first chance to write since I got back from hospital. I don't want to even think about the reasons why I was there, much less put them down on paper. It's too upsetting.

  Even now I'm home, I can still feel the creeping suffocation, the iron hands around my throat, slowly choking off my breath.

  They say it was only a panic attack and that I simply need to calm down. How can I do that? The walls are closing in on me again. Wherever I look, I see enemies.

  I'm trapped and there's no way out.

  I managed to drive us back on the Monday morning but wasn't exaggerating when I said I was exhausted afterwards. My back was seizing up, and the dull throbbing in my neck was ignoring the serious drugs that had been pumped into me.

  Julie had meetings in the City all afternoon but promised to buy some fish and cook us supper when she got home. She was being unusually kind and thoughtful and, for a moment, I wondered whether she actually had a conscience hidden away somewhere.

  Considering the frighteningly cold calculation behind her persecution of my mother and her seduction of me, if she did have a conscience, it must have been beaten into submission years ago and was only let off the lead on special occasions. Who could tell? She was probably just going through the motions of being kind to put me off my guard.

  It didn
't make a difference. Nothing she could do or say would stop me doing what I had to do. If it turned out I was wrong, and there was another explanation, I'd deal with the consequences. But I wasn't wrong. I knew it.

  All I needed was to get that phone. It had been easy to put the bug in her wallet and take the DNA and fingerprint samples while I was the poor invalid. I now had plenty of time to grab the phone and give it to Daz. We'd arranged to meet in a pub down the road at four o'clock.

  After Julie had been gone for half an hour, I got up and wandered around the flat, looking in every room to make sure she was definitely out. Following my lucky break at the weekend, I could feel the fear and tension tightening a spring between my shoulders, which did nothing to help my whiplash.

  She wasn't there. I had my chance.

  Her office was empty, but I still crept in on tiptoes, my heart in my mouth, waiting for an alarm to go off or someone to jump out. I opened the drawer inch-by-inch and there it was, just as before.

  I picked it up and was unable to resist switching it on to look at the screensaver image. My mother was so young – probably about my age - and looked carefree and happy. How could she have known what was coming down the line? I stood there for a few minutes, talking to her in my mind, telling her how I was going to avenge her and to make her proud.

  It was already after three and I needed to finish up and get out to meet Daz. I put the real phone in my pocket and took out the dummy – it was identical. As I reached forward to reconnect the charging lead, I heard a rustle of clothing behind me. I spun round and there she was, standing in the doorway, arms by her sides, no trace of emotion on her blank face.