The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Seventeen

A gentle breeze blew through the town, whipping across James' unprotected ears. He stood on the corner of the main road, waiting for the traffic to pass before crossing. There were just under a thousand people living in the town, that meant there was at least a thousand cars. He wondered how Franks' search for the getaway car was going. They identified the tires; hopefully finding the car they belonged to would not take long.

Five minutes later, he reached the hospital where Jeb had texted to say Franks was, his breath catching in his throat from the freezing air in his lungs. The heated hospital thawed them out and set him coughing as he marched down the stairs to the forensic office.

He found Franks at a desk with Johnston standing beside him talking quietly. They looked up as he walked in, Johnston nodding a friendly greeting at him while Franks merely shifted a black look in James's direction.

'Check out the tires of a car belonging to a man named Leven Amsler,' said James, pulling up a seat and dropping comfortably on to it. 'I've just talked to him, and guess what? He's the leading mind on cults, religion and sects in this here town. He also just so happens to own a store right next door to the pet shop where Geoff White hanged out with his girlfriend Miss Sylvia Stiles.'

Johnston stared at him. 'That is a lot of evidence stacked up against Amsler, it could all be coincidence.'

'I hate coincidences,' snapped James, the thrill of his discovery deflating at the flat response of his colleagues. 'Anyway, when I talked to him about it he failed to mention his knowledge.'

'We would have checked his car anyway, when we'd have gotten to him,' Franks told Johnston, turning back to his computer. 'It doesn't matter which order we look through the possible evidence. We'll be here for hours, if there is a hunch I'll run with it. Anything to get out of this damn office.'

'Did you see his car outside his shop?' asked Johnston, switching between looking at James and Franks.

'Nope. Not that I even remember what the tread mark you found looked like. Nor do I know what kind of car Amsler drives for that matter,' James admitted.

'So you don't actually know if this Amsler guy drives or not?' asked Johnston, disbelievingly as he rolled his eyes.

'He should, he's not going to get anywhere if he doesn't. What public transport is he going to take in this hick town?' retorted James.

'He does drive,' Franks told them both, loudly. 'A yellow 1989 Chevie. Registered to Mr and Mrs Leven Amsler. In good condition, but they are looking to sell. The advert has been up for a couple of months.'

'So we had better go down and have a look at it then, right?' pressed James, standing and heading out the door. Behind him the other's followed, Franks fishing about in his pocket for his keys.

He found them and tossed them to James. 'I suppose you're still car grounded, right?'

Scowling, James stuffed them into his pocket. 'I still have a car, I just can't travel without an escort, is all.'

Franks snorted.

They found Leven Amsler in the back office of his store, biting into a sandwich as he flipped through a catalogue.

'Inspector Holland,' he said through a mouthful of bread, brushing away the crumbs and standing to his feet as he did so. 'You've brought friends,' he added, suspiciously.

'Yes, Mr Amsler. They would like to take a look at your car. Is it still for sale?'

'Oh.' Amsler brushed himself off again and neatened his suit. 'Certainly, gentlemen,' he added, raising his voice and putting on a salesman tone to it. 'It's parked out back. Care to come this way?'