Kill Chase (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller Book 1) Read online

  KILL CHASE

  ***

  A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller

  Book One

  ***

  M K Farrar

  Copyright © M K Farrar 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  Published by Warwick House Press

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Kill Chase (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller, #1)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  For Dad,

  Always missed.

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  mkfarrar.com

  Chapter One

  “Catch!”

  The beer can flew towards Evan Fraser. He managed to snatch it from the air before it hit the ground where it would have most likely rolled into the river. He was pleased he caught it—his reflexes weren’t what they used to be.

  Evan glanced at his watch. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

  It was barely nine-thirty, and Evan and his friend, Paul Merchant, had only just arrived at Conham River Park to settle in for a long day’s fishing.

  Paul cracked open his beer and took a long gulp. “Never too early when you’ve got a whole day without the kids or missus. Got to make the most of it.”

  They’d found a good spot, but this part of the River Avon was tidal, and they’d have to shift their position during the day to prevent their feet getting wet. A low-lying mist had been hanging over the river first thing, but the day promised to be another hot one and the rapidly warming sun was already burning it off.

  Evan cast his line, the nylon whistling through the air. There was a barely noticeable flick on the water as the hook and sinker hit the surface and vanished beneath, leaving the float on top.

  The river was moving at a brisk pace. The only sound was the gurgle of the water, the light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees surrounding them, and the tweet of birdsong. It was hard to believe Bristol city centre was only a twenty-minute drive away. It felt like they were in a whole other county.

  Sod it.

  Evan opened the can, took a swig, and settled back in his fold-out chair. He balanced his beer on the swell of his belly. His wife had been complaining about the extra weight he’d put on lately, but she wasn’t exactly skinny either. Besides, they were both in their early fifties now, and surely allowed to let themselves go a bit.

  He’d probably be asleep within the hour, but it wouldn’t do any harm to rest his eyes for a bit, face upturned to the warm summer sun. He doubted he’d miss much. There was always the thrill of a catch to look forward to, but between catches were long periods of not much else. Just how he liked it.

  “Avon means ‘river’, you know,” Paul said. “So, the River Avon is actually called River River.”

  “Fascinating,” Evan deadpanned.

  Paul shrugged. “I thought it was.”

  Evan’s float dipped below the surface then popped back up again. He sat up straight and frowned. It went back under and this time didn’t come back up. His line tightened.

  “Think you’ve got something there, mate.” Paul nodded at Evan’s line.

  Evan got to his feet. “Something big, too.”

  Eight-pound pike swam in this river, and even bigger carp. Would be a lucky day for him if he caught one within minutes of casting his line.

  He got to his feet and removed his rod from its stand. He let the line out and then reeled it back in, expecting to feel that familiar tug of a fish on the end, ready for the battle of giving a little, before drawing it closer to the bank. But something was wrong.

  He frowned. “Bollocks. That’s not a fish. The line’s caught on something.”

  “A rock?” Paul suggested.

  But whatever the hook was caught on gave a smidgen, allowing him to pull it closer.

  He shook his head. “No, don’t think so. Feels like the weight of a fish, but without the movement.” He jerked his head at the large round net beside him. “Grab that for me, will you?”

  His friend did as he’d asked and picked up the net, standing with one foot at the edge of the riverbank, the other behind him, bracing to scoop up whatever it was on the end of Evan’s line.

  The faded orange of a supermarket carrier bag broke the surface of the water.

  Evan let out a groan of disappointment.

  “Some bugger has chucked his rubbish in the river, and I’ve been the lucky one to catch it.”

  The bag was attached to his hook, so he had no choice but to keep reeling it in. It wasn’t as though he’d just let it sink back into the river, anyway. He wasn’t into polluting the same river he spent so much time beside. He was a conscientious man, and not one of these morons who thought it was okay to spend the day with nature and leave all their crap behind. People like that really got his goat. How were they supposed to enjoy the countryside when idiots couldn’t even be bothered to clean up after themselves?

  Paul clearly felt the same way, voicing Evan’s thoughts. “What dickhead thought it was a good idea to throw their litter in the water?”

  “Probably kids. Couldn’t be bothered to take it home.”

  The bag was almost at the edge of the bank now. Evan didn’t know what was in it, but he assumed it must be empty bottles of booze or something. From the weight, he figured they must have filled up with river water.

  Paul got ready with the net and reached forwards. He ducked the net under the water and lifted the bag out of the river.

  The stench hit Evan like a punch to the face, rocking his head back. “Jesus Christ.”

  He covered his nose with his forearm and coughed, trying to expel the rotten air from his lungs. It smelled like roadkill on a hot summer’s day
, a stink that would follow a person right down the street.

  Paul dropped the net and took a step back, his face screwed up in disgust. “What the fuck is that?”

  “No idea, but that’s got to be the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.” With a sinking sensation, Evan realised their chilled-out day fishing had just been ruined. They couldn’t toss the bag back into the water, and there was no chance they could have it anywhere near them. There weren’t any bins around here where they could throw the bag away, so they’d have to carry it back to the carpark and put it in one of their cars. He didn’t even want to put it in his wheelie bin at home. It would stink the garden out.

  “What the hell do we do with it now?” Evan said.

  Paul grimaced and shot him a look. “Should we see what’s inside it?”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Maybe someone won a meat raffle at the pub and decided on the way home they didn’t want it.”

  Yes, that was what it smelled like—rotten meat.

  Evan had an idea, but he didn’t like it. “Do you think someone might have been trying to get rid of an unwanted litter?”

  Paul pulled another face. “Jesus. You think it’s puppies or kittens, or something?”

  “No idea. But it might be.”

  “Then I definitely don’t need to see.”

  Evan agreed with him, but still he felt compelled to check. If some bastard was drowning puppies, they should report it to the RSPCA. He was also hoping that a call to the charity might mean they’d take the bag out of their hands, so it would become someone else’s problem.

  He turned his face and sucked in a lungful of air, then, holding it in his lungs, stepped towards the bag. It was still on the side of the riverbank, cradled by his net. He needed to work quickly, not wanting to risk having to suck in another breath while he was standing right over it. He plucked at the plastic, trying to pull it open. Already, his lungs burned. The plastic felt different, as though its time underwater had changed the composition, making it crunchier, somehow. He gave it a tug, and the bag unrolled, leaving the top open for him to see inside. With his other arm covering his mouth and nose, he crouched to look.

  It took him a moment for his brain to piece together what his eyes were seeing. Fat, pale sausages curled into claws. No, those couldn’t be sausages. Sausages didn’t have nails on the ends—nails that now appeared loosened from the nailbed and close to dropping off.

  Oh God. It was a hand. The palm led to a bloated wrist and then a forearm, where it ended abruptly.

  Whoever the arm belonged to was no longer on the end of it.

  Chapter Two

  The two detectives took the path through Conham River Park to the spot where the fishermen had set up for the day. The area had been shut off to the public, a blue line of tape marking the outer cordon, but the inner cordon was some distance away.

  Detective Inspector Ryan Chase hadn’t wanted to deal with the mountain of paperwork threatening to smother his desk, so when the call came in that he was needed at the park, about a twenty-minute drive from the central Bristol office, he was more than happy to attend the scene. The office had grown stuffy in the unusually warm weather they were having, and the handful of table fans they’d found only served to waft the hot air around.

  He’d brought his sergeant, Mallory Lawson, with him, and she, like him, was happy to get out of the office. However, she was less impressed by the heatwave—her pale complexion didn’t do well in the sun.

  “I’m going to be a beetroot by the time we get done,” she complained as they marched down the path towards the crime scene.

  “You should put on sun cream in the morning when it’s going to be like this.”

  His comment was fatherly—though, in her early thirties, Mallory was only a decade or so younger than him.

  “I do,” she protested. “I practically have shares in bloody sun cream, but it still doesn’t make any difference. One hint of sunny weather and I’ll burn.”

  Despite being a police officer, Mallory had never quite managed to shed her emo vibe. Her poker-straight black hair was cut with a fringe that Ryan always thought was far too short—not that he’d ever mention such a thing to her—and she had holes down both of her earlobes, and one in her nose where a ring would go back into it during evenings and weekends. Her skin was paler than even those parts of him that hadn’t seen the sun since he was a toddler running around with no clothes on. There were times she made him feel like a complete dinosaur—which he was sure he wasn’t at the age of only forty-six—but she was a good detective with a sharp eye and a brain that was capable of juggling far more things at one time than he was.

  “How’s Ollie doing?” he asked.

  Mallory’s expression brightened at the mention of her younger brother who had Down’s syndrome. “He’s great. He’s still working at his job at the hardware shop. The customers really love him there.”

  “I can imagine they would.”

  The appearance of an inner cordon and uniformed police presence, together with the voices and splash of people in the river, signalled they’d reached the correct spot. Ryan flashed his ID at the uniformed officer, and then he and Mallory ducked under the tape and wound through the foliage.

  Bushes and saplings surrounded the small clearing where two fold-out chairs had been set up, two identical fishing lines held in stands beside them. A couple of open beer cans nestled in the grass next to the chairs. Trees overhung the river, leaning across as though to trail their branches in the water like people on rowboats dipping their fingers in a lake.

  Police divers were already on scene, kitted out in black wetsuits. Some worked the shallower parts of the river, wading methodically along, searching through weeds and mud and refuse, just as a police search on land would be carried out. Others in scuba gear searched the deeper part of the middle of the river.

  On the bank, about a foot away from the rippling water, a faded orange carrier bag sat beside a number marker. Beneath the carrier bag, and encircling it like a halo, lay a large round net. Even from a distance, the stench coming off it caught at the back of Ryan’s throat, and he fought the urge to cough and cover his nose and mouth with his hand. It didn’t help that they were now approaching midday and the sun was hotter than ever. He looked around for someone from the coroner’s office. They were going to need to get the body part down to the mortuary to prevent any further decomposition.

  He spotted Sergeant Malcolm Banner directing a couple of his constables and walked over. The sergeant was a squat man, around the same age as Ryan but about a foot shorter. At six-foot-one, Ryan often had to look down on people in a physical sense, but did his best not to do so otherwise, unless the other person was an arsehole, of course. Trouble was, in his role he came across a lot of arseholes.

  “Sergeant Banner,” Ryan greeted him. “You remember DS Lawson.”

  “Of course.” Banner nodded hello in her direction. “Thanks for coming.”

  “What have we got?” Ryan asked.

  “Two fishermen,” Banner said, “fifty-one-year-old Evan Fraser, and fifty-five-year-old Paul Merchant, fished a carrier bag out of the river. When Evan Fraser checked what was inside, he discovered it was a dismembered arm.”

  “Which of the men caught it?”

  “That was Mr Fraser as well.”

  Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Wonder if it’s put him off fishing anytime soon.”

  Banner barked a short dry laugh. “I’d certainly be worried about what was going to be on the end of the line next.”

  “I’ve never understood the fascination with fishing,” Mallory threw in. “It’s just an excuse to sit around and not do anything, isn’t it?”

  “They’re not doing nothing; they’re fishing,” Banner said, “or at least that’s what they tell their wives.”

  Ryan glanced over Banner’s shoulder to the river. “Have the divers found anything yet?”

  “Other than the solitary arm, we’ve got nothing so f
ar.”

  Ryan frowned. “That arm must have belonged to someone. How long do you think it’s been in the water for?”

  Banner shrugged. “Hard to tell, but from the lack of decomposition, I’d say most likely days, rather than weeks or months. That it was wrapped in plastic has helped prevent the wildlife turning it into fish food, too. At a guess, I’d say it’s been weighted down with something, and then it’s most likely come loose and with the rising tide has been swept here.”

  “You think it’s come from downstream rather than upstream?” Mallory asked.

  “Hard to know for sure, but right now the tide’s coming in. Either way, we’ve got one hell of a big area to cover. If the rest of whoever the arm belongs to is also in pieces and in carrier bags in the river, we’re going to have a lot of opportunities to find something.”

  Ryan admired the police diving unit for their work, but the idea of spending all day submerged in dirty water while feeling around for a body part or murder weapon didn’t appeal at all. He didn’t even much like going in the sea at the beach for fear that something he couldn’t see would touch his feet. When he’d been married, he’d let his wife spend time on the beach while he found a pub that had tables outside where he could nurse a cold beer until she’d had enough.

  Holding his breath against the stink, he crouched beside the open bag and peered inside. The hand was pale and wrinkly, the skin loose against the bone and muscle it had once covered perfectly, creating the effect of a too-big glove. The hairs on the backs of the hand and fingers were thick and dark, indicating that it had once belonged to a man. No rings or any other jewellery adorned the fingers or wrist, and the water damage to the skin made it hard to tell if there were any tan lines where a ring might once have been. He didn’t see any obvious tattoos. Hopefully, they’d be able to get prints from the hand and match it to a missing person’s case fairly quickly. Narrowing down the identity of the victim would go a long way to figuring out what had happened.

  He looked over the bag, searching for clues as to where it had come from. It was a popular supermarket, and he didn’t think that was going to help them narrow it down at all. There must be hundreds of thousands of these bags stuffed under people’s kitchen sinks in the city.