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

by Tony Salter

  I stopped breathing and sank back against the desk. 'Julie,' I croaked. 'Why are you here?'

  'You little fool,' she said, taking a step towards me. 'I knew something wasn't right, but I wasn't expecting this.'

  'Julie. I can explain ...' My mind was racing in panic-fuelled circles. Why had she decided to sneak back? What did she know?

  'Don't bother, sweet boy.' She looked at the phone in my hand. 'I think the situation speaks for itself. Don't you?'

  I didn't know what to say and looked around for something to hit her with, or throw at her. I was bigger and stronger but she was dangerous.

  There was a sharp crack and the open drawer slammed shut beside me, splinters flying. Julie was standing statue-still with a smoking black pistol in her hand.

  'Fucking hell,' I screamed at her. 'Are you fucking crazy? That could've hit me.'

  'Calm down,' she said. 'At this range, I'm pretty good. And if I want to hit you, I will. Just don't try and be clever.'

  I stood shaking and looked at the cold, black eyes watching me from behind the gun. I couldn't see anger, sadness, or even disappointment in that gaze. I was now nothing more than an inconvenience. But she wasn't going to kill me. She had no reason to do that.

  'Put the phone down on the desk,' she said. 'How did you find it anyway?'

  I put the dummy phone down carefully. 'My father gave me my mother's old phone,' I told her. 'And I dialled the number on the tracking software. I heard it ringing in your office.'

  'What are the chances of that happening?' she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. 'I knew that keeping the phone was weak and sentimental, so I suppose I can't blame you entirely.'

  'Blame me?' My voice was a falsetto squeak. 'Blame me. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?'

  'Whatever,' she said. 'What's done is done. The problem we have now is that I need some time to get away safely.'

  Was she going to kill me to keep me quiet? Surely not? 'Julie. Don't do anything crazy. I promise I'll keep quiet.'

  She laughed. 'Don't be an idiot. I'm not going to shoot you. Whatever you might think of me, I'm not a murderer.'

  I pictured my mother's desperate end, and Julie's father lying bleeding on the kitchen floor. 'I know that,' I said, trying to hide the doubt in my voice.

  'But I do need to be sure you won't talk to anybody until I'm long gone.'

  'I promise I won't say anything ...'

  'Of course you will. You'll tell them everything you know. But not until you get out of the safe room.'

  After buying the flat, Julie had installed a fully armoured panic room, well stocked with food and water as well as independent ventilation and communications systems. If a burglar or kidnapper was in the flat, you could hide there until the police came.

  'I'll tell the police where to find you in a couple of days. It'll give you a chance to catch up on some sleep.'

  I felt the fight wash out of me like the last gurgling gasps of an emptying bath. I wasn't going to die today.

  I let myself be guided through to the panic room which was hidden behind a mirrored panel in the main bedroom's ensuite bathroom. Julie opened the door and motioned me in. I turned in the doorway and looked at her.

  'Was there really nothing between us?' I said. 'Nothing at all.'

  'Of course there was. We had lots of fun and you reminded me a little of your mother. But now it's over. We both know that.'

  '... And my mother? Were you responsible for what happened to her?'

  'Come along. Enough is enough. This isn't a James Bond film. There's no time for more chit chat. In you go.'

  I heard the door close behind me with the hiss of pneumatic seals.

  I'd been in the room a couple of times before when Julie was explaining the emergency drill. The remarkable thing was the silence. Her flat alway felt quiet and tranquil – it was on the fifth floor with triple-glazing everywhere – but, when the safe room door closed behind you, the silence was something different. Solid, tangible, something you could scoop up with a spoon.

  There was a big, high-tech control panel on the wall which managed all of the systems including the door release, the radio beacon and the panic alarm. It was too much to hope that I would get to any of these before Julie, and I watched as each of them flashed up 'Manual Override - System Inactive'. I would be stuck here for a few days; I might as well get comfortable.

  There was a small bed in one corner, a chemical toilet and a tall, metal cupboard filled with water, food and medical supplies. No entertainment. It was going to be a long wait. I imagined how worried Daz would be when I didn't turn up for our meeting, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I was trapped and Julie was escaping again.

  I felt the shape of the real phone in my pocket and smiled to myself. At least I had that. And the tracker. Maybe things weren't so bad after all.

  A steady beeping was coming from the control panel and when I went over to look, a bright red triangle was flashing insistently in the centre of the screen. 'Warning. Ventilation systems disabled. Enter password to reset.' I looked at it blankly. Was the display broken?

  It took a while for the horrible truth to sink in.

  If she'd deliberately disabled the air supply, then she had no intention of telling anyone where I was. Julie knew I didn't have the password. She was leaving me here to die.

  I didn't know how long the oxygen in the room would last, but it was a small room, so my guess was not more than a day. I could already taste the air becoming stale and the walls closing in on me.

  I sat down on the small bed and started to cry.

  Not This Time

  I've now been waiting for twenty minutes and no sign of Sam. I've called his phone ten times and there's no answer. Something must have gone wrong and, if that bitch Jax is involved ... if she caught him poking around ... I wouldn't put anything past her.

  I told Liz we shouldn't let him do it. I'm the only one who knows what Jax is actually like. She's got this kind of sixth sense – almost like magic – and she's always one step ahead. Back in the day, there were times when I thought that Fabiola must see through her, but Jax always came up with something to twist things in her favour. Often making me look bad in the process.

  If she knows she's been rumbled, she'll be looking to disappear again and it won't take her long. She always had a back-up plan, even when we were only innocent young idealists, playing at changing the world. She had at least two grab bags, with clothes, money and fake IDs, stashed with friends or in left luggage somewhere. She told the rest of us we were fools if we didn't have our own escape plans. 'You never know,' she'd say. 'Better safe than sorry. Don't trust anyone.'

  That was the thing I remember most about Jax. She didn't trust anyone. She always covered her options and assumed people would let her down. The only exception was Fabiola. I think Jax trusted her and that probably explains everything.

  In my job, I'm trained to behave with empathy and understanding to the patients – even those who've done terrible things and, given a chance, would do them again. We learn how it isn't their fault; either their biology or their experiences have driven them to this point.

  Jax is different. Maybe it's because of Fabiola and the way I felt about her? Maybe it's because I knew her from outside work? Whatever it is, I can't give her the benefit of the doubt. I've always believed she was simply evil; a black soul set on Earth to cause mischief, misery and pain.

  Jax had a favourite escape plan. She always talked about it as Plan G. 'G' as in 'Get the fuck out of here'. She'd done an analysis of surveillance camera angles and transport links and was convinced that Kings Cross station was the best starting point. Left luggage right next to the loos, a quick change of appearance and you could stay in camera black spots until you were well gone.

  It was over a quarter of a century ago and everything's completely different now. My only hope is that she hasn't changed. If she's on the run, my gut says that'll be where she goes first. Sam'
s now forty minutes late. Something is definitely wrong.

  I hope I'm not too late or in the wrong place. The Ladies is still right next to the left luggage and I've found a good spot behind a pillar where I can see everyone who goes in or out. I think I'll recognise her from the photos Sam showed me but I'm not a hundred per cent sure.

  I've been here for twenty minutes, which makes almost two hours since Sam was supposed to meet me; I'm afraid I've missed her. God, I hope not. I know in my gut that this is my one chance.

  When I told DS Liz what was going on, she called in a favour with some of her old colleagues and they went to Julie's flat. A flash of ID and the concierge let them in.

  There was no-one there and they didn't have a search warrant, but it was difficult for them to miss the bullet hole in Julie's desk. Something bad has happened. Sam is in big trouble.

  Wait! Is that her? Different hair and high street, off-the-rack clothes, but there's something about her movement. It has to be Jax. She's taking care to keep close to the wall and it looks like she's heading down Caledonia Street towards Caledonia Road. It's not dark yet, so I need to find a good place to tackle her. Somewhere less public.

  I'm not cut out for sneaking around tailing people, but luckily Jax isn't expecting anyone to be following her. She's focused on keeping in camera blind spots as much as she can. Her head is bowed and the long, black hair of her wig is falling in front of her face.

  Apart from the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic, there are very few people about. If I can find the right place, I should be able to grab her without being seen.

  There's an underground car park up ahead. It might be a possibility, but I'll need to be quick. I run towards her as quietly as I can, but she's already turning and the whites of her eyes show her shock when she realises that it's me. The confusion gives me a vital fraction of a second head start and I manage to grab her and bundle her down the concrete ramp and into the darkness.

  Tackling and restraining strong, struggling patients is something I've been doing all of my life, but I can't remember any of them fighting like Jax. She's swearing, spitting and scratching like a wildcat and, for a second or two, she comes close to breaking free. I have one knee on her back and lean closer.

  'Jax. If you don't stop struggling, I swear I'll break your fucking arm.'

  I tighten my grip and increase the leverage on her elbow, one degree at a time.

  'OK. You've made your point,' she spits the words out through the agony, but stops struggling. 'What the fuck are you doing here?'

  'Where's Sam?'

  'How would I know where Sam is?'

  'You always treated me like a stupid piece of shit,' I say, applying more pressure to her elbow. 'But I'm not that thick. The police found the bullet hole in your desk. Where's Sam?'

  'I don't know. We had a fight. He left. That's all I know. Let me go. I never did anything to you.'

  I can feel the rage flood my skull. I need to keep myself under control. I need to find Sam. But all I want to do is to break her arm like a stick and then pound her head into the hard concrete. Again and again. Again and again. Until it's over.

  'Never did anything to me?' She must surely hear from my voice that she's gone too far. 'You took the only person I ever loved away from me, you fucking witch. And you did it out of spite. Out of fucking spite, for Christ's sake.'

  'I loved her too,' she says. 'It wasn't supposed to end like that. I didn't mean ...'

  'I don't give a fuck what you meant. If you're not going to tell me where Sam is, let's see what the police have to say.' I use my free hand to take out my phone and start dialling.

  'Wait,' she says. 'If you call the police, you won't find Sam in time.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'You heard me. He'll be out of air in a couple of hours. Let me go and I'll tell you where he is. Don't and I won't.'

  'You want me to trust you?'

  'Do you have a choice?'

  The war going on in my head is physical. A battle between rational thought and primeval apocalypse. Seconds quickly become hours of raging conflict and I start to shake with the effort.

  'How do I know you're not lying?'

  'Give me my phone. It's in my jacket.'

  I reach into her pocket and pass her the phone, still keeping her right arm twisted almost to breaking point. As she shifts her body round to see the screen I can hear her breath coming in sharp bursts. She must be in agony – most people would probably have passed out by now.

  After a few seconds, she hands me the phone.

  'Look,' she says. 'Still think I'm lying?'

  It's my turn to gasp. The image on the screen is grainy and black and white, but there's no doubt it's Sam, lying on the floor of a dimly-lit room, pale face covered in beads of sweat.

  'When was this taken?'

  'Look more carefully,' she says. 'Zoom in.'

  I look again and this time I see the movement. Sam's chest is rising and falling – almost imperceptibly – and his eyelids are half-closed and flickering.

  'What the fuck is this?'

  'You know exactly what it is,' she says. 'It's a live feed of the room where I left Sam.'

  I can feel the cold of the concrete floor seeping into me. It's real. Sam's dying.

  'What would Fabiola want you to do?' says Jax, knowing her trump card and, as always, playing it at the perfect moment.

  'Fuck you,' I say, tightening the armlock until she cries out. 'What would she want you to do? Let her son die?'

  'Don't treat me like an idiot,' she snarls. 'Remember who locked him in the room in the first place.'

  'Jax, please. He's just a kid.'

  '... And he doesn't have to die. You can still save him,' she says. 'It's not too late.'

  'Give me your word,' I say, realising how weak that sounds.

  'I swear. Let me go and I'll tell you where to find him.'

  I stare at the white face on the phone screen; it's as though I can see the life seeping out of him and I can feel tears warm on my cheeks. If I let Jax go, she'll be gone for ever, but Sam is dying. If there's even the slightest chance of saving him ...

  I let go of her arm and slump forwards onto my knees. Jax is a psychopathic bitch but she's always had her own warped ideas of right and wrong. I can only pray that, in her world, keeping her promise is 'the right thing to do'. I've got no other choice.

  Jax stands up, holding her elbow and clearly in a lot of pain. She picks up her bag and backs away towards the car park entrance.

  'Stay here,' she says. 'I'll message you in five minutes.'

  'If you fucking let me down, I'll ...'

  She lifts her good hand to stop me. 'Don't worry. A deal's a deal. A life for a life. I'll see you Daz.'

  And then she's gone, leaving me kneeling on the cold, hard floor, emotionally-drained, exhausted and praying I've made the right decision.

  It was only five minutes, but five minutes is an eternity when you're watching the seconds ticking away and wondering if you've made the biggest mistake of your life.

  The phone screen is blurring as tears of rage and frustration start to fill my eyes. She's not going to text me. I shouldn't have trusted her.

  When the message flashes up, I'm almost surprised.

  'There's a secure panic room in my flat. Behind the mirror in the main bathroom. I've disabled the ventilation system and the door lock. Tell them to bring drills. He can't have long.'

  The Walls Close In

  May 21st 2015

  I lost Sam today.

  It was only for quarter of an hour but I don't know how it happened. I turned around for a second and he was gone.

  I keep seeing flashes of the empty pavement where Sam was supposed to be sitting in his pushchair, right where I left him. It's as though my mind sliced out a short wedge of time, threw it aside and seamlessly joined up the edges.

  What will I say to Rupert when he comes home? I have to tell him, but I don't know how.

  I eventu
ally stopped crying. What was the point? A small voice was still coming from the Pandora's box deep inside of me promising that all was not lost. Julie would tell someone after all. Daz and Liz would definitely call the police if I didn't turn up. There was always hope.

  But would anyone arrive in time? I suspected my initial estimates of a day's worth of air were optimistic; I needed to do whatever I could to conserve what was left.

  Lying still was probably the best option, but it didn't work. After a few seconds, I started to feel the panic well up inside me and my breaths became short, desperate rasps, hungry to grab as much air as possible before it was all gone.

  I stood and paced slowly around the ever-shrinking box, concentrating on my surroundings and working to bring my hyperventilation under control. There wasn't much to see; I'd already made a full inventory of the cupboard, my phone wouldn't work inside here. There was nothing to help me and the room had heavy steel reinforcing on all sides.

  The small spyhole in the wall gave me a fisheye view of the huge, marble bathroom but Julie wasn't sitting on the edge of the bath waiting to let me out and tell me that she hoped I'd learnt a lesson. Of course she wasn't.

  The only option I had was to wait. Either that tiny voice of hope was toying with me or it wasn't. There was nothing I could do about it. I needed to keep calm and to stop time coming to a complete stop but, as each minute passed, I could feel the walls closing in and the air becoming musty and stale.

  And the nagging harridan of the ventilation warning alarm wouldn't stop prodding a bony finger between my eyes reminding me over and over again. 'You ... are ... running ... out ... of ... time.'