The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Two

Damascus, Virginia.

Wednesday, 12th November, 1986

A murder of crows circled above the highway, swooping and cawing loudly in the early morning. A lone state trooper chevrolet trawled steadily down the highway. Slowing to a halt, Inspector James Holland wound down the window of his car to peer at the strange sight. After a moment he eased his car back onto the road, eyes flickering every now and again to the black mass. Forest lined either side of the highway, casting gloomy shadows over the road. Within the next half hour, the sun would be high enough to dispel them.

He continued down the wet highway, passing old, worn down houses that lined the side in large blocks of property. Leaves lay scattered across the torn lawns, fences were on a lean and here and there trees lay on their sides, roots clogged with dirt pointing up to the sky.

He passed a turn off, a gravel road that led up a small hill, through a block of trees, straight to an old sawmill. The houses drew closer together as the road turned into a bitumen street with curbed edges. The grass changed from ragged to neatly trimmed, the houses transforming into manors with large fences separating the owners from the other people. At the far end of the street rose a huge, two level house. A paved driveway led the way up to an ornate garden in the middle of the col du sac. As James drove up, he caught sight of a squad car parked on an angle near the door.

As he parked, the quiet, lonesome scenery was disturbed as the door of the squad car opened. A sharp dressed man with morning stubble clambered out of the front seat and walked unsteadily over to James.

'Hello, James,' the man said, stopping to watch James lock his car. 'Welcome back. It's been a while.'

'Morning, Eric,' replied James, nodding. He focused on a point just above the man's left shoulder so that he could look at the house. It was made of cream brick, each window had a garden windowsill and all the curtains were closed. The whole house seemed to lean from the weight of something crushing it.

'It has been a while.' He sighed, turning back to the other detective. 'Been keeping well?'

'Better than the family in there,' Eric Franks said, tossing his head back to the house. 'Come on, the Perette's are waiting.'

A long time ago, he and Franks had met in the police academy. Despite Franks being 20 year his senior, they had trained together and grown close. Had grown close. It was all in the past now. Franks was competitive and constantly sought to be better than others were, especially James. He was a sergeant helping train recruits before taking his inspector test. Somehow, despite his bullying and undermining of other cadets, he was a good officer. However, because he believed so strongly that James was trying to beat him at everything, he distanced himself from everyone and become cold and aloof. His friends fell away and, depressed and alone, Franks blamed James. Years later, James could see the rift was still there.

As Franks spoke, the front door eased open and a middle-aged man stepped out. He squinted at the morning sun, and then focused on the two men. His eyes were red and bloodshot, but everything else about him was meticulously prepared. His face was freshly shaven, his black hair, greying at the roots, cut short and swept back. As he moved to greet them, his fringe fell down over his forehead. His suit was of a fine cut, dark blue with lighter blue stripes, underneath the jacket James could make out a grey shirt.

'Thank you for coming out so soon, Inspector, I'm Paul Perette,' he said, pulling to a stop and shaking Franks firmly by the hand. 'Come inside, please, officer Lias is taking a statement from my wife.'

Turning, Perette ignored James as he hurried back up to the house, followed closely by Franks who replied to James's scowl with a playful twitch of his lips.