The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Fourteen

The air had a silent quality to it that was found only in moments of fear. It was hard and bitter, and James's footsteps decreed loudly that he was a disturber of the peace. Black bitumen roads covered in flakes of snow and ice had a reflective sheen to it. The rising sun poured down weak heat but bright light that lit the town ablaze. Pushing through the doors of a coffee shop, James shook the cold off his back and stamped the dirt from his shoes.

A couple of customers raised their heads as he entered but returned to their breakfast. Seating himself at the counter, James ordered the big breakfast and his own cup of coffee.

He was halfway through his breakfast when the door creaked open. With the rest of the diners, James twisted to have a look at the new customer.

Paul Perette, dressed in a sharp suit and shiny shoes had his back to the café and was hanging up his coat on the hook by the door. He turned without seeing James, ordered a cup of coffee and retreated to the back of the café.

James watched as the man seated himself, gave a brief yawn half-hidden behind the back of his hand, then, after a stretch, opened the newspaper he had clasped under his arm.

After a minute of watching, James picked up his coffee and joined Perette. He slid into the chair opposite.

'I'm surprised to see you out of the house,' he said. 'How are you?'

The paper slipped from Perette's hand, separating and floating to the floor. His face was wide and surprised. Then Paul Perette composed himself, shuffling his paper together and letting the stunned look slide from his face into one of relaxation.

'I'm fine,' he replied. 'Just out for a bit of breakfast.'

'I thought you would have been at home, with your wife for breakfast,' said James.

'Why?'

James stared. 'Why?' he repeated. He paused, questioningly. 'Because of yesterday.' Perette stared back quietly, a look of his own puzzlement spread across his face. 'Your daughter's kidnapping,' pressed James quietly.

'Oh!' exclaimed Perette. Looking quickly around, he lowered his voice and clasped his mug in his hands. 'Yes.' He stared thoughtfully at his reflection, seemingly forgetting James was there.

'How's your wife?'

'Fine,' said Perette. A change had come over him, as if he had been reminded that he was sad.

'I would have thought,' repeated James slowly, 'that you would be at home with her.'

'Why?' snapped Perette, looking up. 'What can I do at home that hasn't already been done? We don't have anything to say to each other and sitting in silence does nothing. What's it to you?'

'I'm the detective in charge of the case, Mr Perette,' said James, frowning. 'I'm not saying there's anything wrong, it's just.' He stopped, Perette was glaring at him.

'If you have to know, I'm meeting someone,' explained Perette, looking back down at the inside of his mug. 'People have to know what happened.'

'Know what?' asked James, a nervous suspicion filling his chest.

'About us,' said Perette. 'About yesterday. What's being done. How I am. How my wife is.'

'Mr Perette, if you're going to talk to the press about this, I would ask you to reconsider until we have a solid lead,' said James, the fear bubbling over him. 'This is a delicate case and any news leaked to the press about the situation without first our consent may cause the kidnapper to hasten whatever plans he has for your daughter if he is suddenly feeling threatened.'