System Failure: A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller Short Story Read online

  SYSTEM FAILURE

  ***

  A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller

  A Short Story

  ***

  M K Farrar

  Copyright © M K Farrar 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Marissa Farrar

  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

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  When the system fails, only murder will put it right.

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  When the system fails, only murder will put it right.

  “Pull me up!” Terror filled the man’s voice. “Please, don’t do this!”

  It was three a.m., and no one was around to hear his cries.

  The man dangled from the bridge, only the rope wrapped around his shins and tied to the metal railings preventing him from falling into the rushing waters of the River Avon below.

  In the distance, Bristol’s city lights winked in the night sky. Light pollution meant the stars weren’t visible, but the moon was almost full, casting the world in a silvery glow.

  Tonight, the captor embraced the darkness.

  The man writhed and squirmed, reminding his captor of a moth trying to thrash its way out of a chrysalis. If he managed to free himself, however, it wouldn’t help him at all. All that would happen was he’d achieve what had already been planned, and he’d fall, headfirst into the river.

  Not that it mattered. He was going to fall anyway.

  Blood from the gash above the man’s eyebrow dribbled into his hairline. Fat droplets plummeted through the air and landed, unseen, into the river, the red vanishing in the gallons of churning water.

  Normally, at this time of year, the water would be slower and not so deep, but the previous day one month of rain had fallen in twenty-four hours, so now the possibility of menace filled its black depths.

  “Please, you don’t have to do this. Let me go!”

  The captor leaned over the barrier to watch the struggling bug. “Not going to happen.”

  He’d considered using tape to cover the man’s mouth, preventing this kind of exchange from happening, but if the body was found with residues of glue across his lips, the police would know this hadn’t been an accident, or even suicide. It was the same reason he’d snapped on a pair of gloves and had a baseball hat pulled down over his already short hair—though the hat would hide his face should he be caught on CCTV.

  Besides, he was enjoying hearing him beg.

  The knots in the rope would give out eventually—they’d been tied in exactly the right way so after a certain amount of struggling, they’d finally come unravelled. The man might be begging to be pulled back up, but the captor had no intention of doing so.

  There was a chance the rope was going to leave marks around the thighs and ankles, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He’d hoped the jeans and boots would go some way to protecting the skin, but he couldn’t protect it completely. If he got lucky, by the time the body was discovered, it would have been so battered against the rocks and bottom of the river the marks wouldn’t be so obvious.

  “Help!” the man screamed, bucking and thrashing. “Someone, help me.”

  The movement only loosened the rope, his body weight working it farther down his shins. If the boots came off, he’d fall.

  “Careful,” the captor warned in a low growl. “Keep doing that and the knot’s going to give.”

  The man froze, and a whimper drifted up to the captor.

  He took cold satisfaction in the sound.

  EARLIER THAT DAY...

  Detective Ryan Chase lined up the items on the left side of his desk—pencil pot, calculator, stapler—and then on the right—notepad, personalised mug, screen cleaner. He almost turned away, but the niggling voice in his head insisted something was wrong and needed to be checked again. He scoured the surface to discover his mouse was too far to the right on the mouse mat. With one finger, he nudged it slightly back to the left, allowing the tension to release inside his chest and the insistent voice to quieten, if only for the moment.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  He jerked his head up at the sound of his sergeant’s voice and gave a curt nod. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

  His palms itched to check the position of the items again, but he clenched his hands into fists and stuffed them in his pockets. “See you tomorrow.”

  Detective Sergeant Mallory Lawson picked up her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder. “We’re going for a drink down at the Cliff Arms, if you fancy it?”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight, Lawson. Thanks anyway.”

  But she hesitated, clearly not wanting to let it go. “You sure? I figured you might want some company, you know, because...”

  Her voice trailed off, but he knew exactly what she’d intended saying.

  “Thanks, but that’s the exact reason I don’t think I’ll be good company.”

  He could have done with having someone who could vouch for his whereabouts tonight, but he was going to have to rely on his neighbour saying he was home. He’d make sure of that. He wasn’t naïve enough, especially considering the business he was in, to think he wouldn’t be looked at.

  In his pocket, his phone vibrated. He sighed. He knew without checking that it was his ex-wife, Donna, but, despite the day, he didn’t want to return her call. Maybe it was wrong of him, but she wasn’t supposed to be his problem anymore.

  He wondered if he should feel guiltier about the way things had gone down with them. Should he check she was all right, or was it just going to end up being yet another conversation about how things should have been different? He couldn’t tell her, of course. Couldn’t tell her things would be different, she just needed to give him a few more hours.

  Donna had held him responsible. He’d assured her things would go the right way and they could trust in the system. The law was his thing—he was a part of it—and it had failed her.

  It had failed all of them.

  That was why he was in this position now.

  Mallory threw him an additional smile. “You’re always bad company, but we keep inviting you anyway.”

  “More fool you. But seriously,” he faked a yawn and rubbed his hand across his face, “I’m pretty beat. One drink and I’ll be asleep on the table. I just want to go home and get my head down.”

  His sergeant knew what day it was just as much as he did, which was why she was so hesitant to let him go, but she couldn’t force him. Besides, the rest of the
team had left already, and she was going to miss out on the first round.

  “Hope you manage to get some sleep then,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He nodded but stayed in position, waiting for her to leave. There was no chance of him getting any sleep tonight, but not for the reason Lawson assumed.

  He waited until she’d vanished out of the door, and then he turned back to his desk and reorganised the contents.

  RYAN HADN’T BEEN LYING when he’d said he was going home. Not that his flat was much of a home these days. It was a place he ate and slept, but he felt more at ease when he was at the office.

  Before he did anything else, he knocked on his neighbour’s door. She answered almost immediately.

  Mrs Furst was in her eighties but remained sharp upstairs and religiously walked three miles every day.

  “Hello, Ryan.” Her gaze flicked across his face. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks, Mrs Furst. I appreciate the compliment.”

  She sniffed and shrugged. “I say it as I see it. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m waiting on a parcel and wondered if anything had been dropped off with you while I was out?”

  She frowned. “No, nothing was left with me, sorry.”

  He already knew that would be the case. He’d made sure to order the parcel with a delivery date estimated to be between today and tomorrow, but that he knew from past experience ran notoriously late.

  “Ah, that’s a shame. I was hoping to have it for tonight. Guess I’ll be spending the evening in front of the television with a cold beer. It’s been a long week. Have you got any plans yourself?”

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at his questions. “I hope you’re not thinking of asking me out. You’re not really my type.”

  He chuckled. “That’s okay, Mrs Furst. You’re not really my type either. I was just being polite.”

  “That’s a relief. Have a good evening. I’ll keep an eye out for that package of yours.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She closed the door, and he crossed the hallway to his flat, happy to have planted the seed. Hopefully, should she be asked, she’d say he was home all night.

  There was nothing more he could do now except prepare himself. He resisted opening the liquor cabinet and helping himself to a drink, hoping to quiet his own voice in his head. But he needed to stay sharp. He’d been preparing for this day for a long time and he wasn’t going to fuck it up now by making a stupid mistake.

  Ryan checked his front door, making sure it was locked, and then turned the television up loud enough to be heard through the wall, but not loud enough to warrant any complaints.

  The items he needed were already in the boot of the car. He swapped his suit for some black jeans, and an equally black hoodie, and stuffed his feet into a pair of boots that were a size too small. He would pull the hoodie up to hide his face and add extra protection with a baseball cap wedged down on top of that. He made sure none of the items had any defining marks on them. He knew better than anyone that the slightest detail could unravel a case. His final addition was some disposable gloves.

  He hesitated.

  Had he locked the front door? Was he sure? How did he know he hadn’t imagined it?

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to silence his brain and focus on anything else, he gave in quicker than normal. One, two, three, four...twists of the handle. Yes, the door was definitely locked.

  It was time.

  Thankful his flat was on the ground floor, Ryan climbed out of the rear window. He made sure it was still unlocked so he could get back in the same way. One, two, three, four. Yes, safe. He straightened and glanced around, ensuring he hadn’t been seen. He didn’t want there to be any reason he’d have to explain himself. He wanted Mrs Furst to be able to say, if asked, that he’d got home at seven p.m. and hadn’t left again until morning.

  A set of rented garages were positioned at the back of the building. He paid just over fifty quid a week for the privilege of renting one, but in the city, where parking was hard to come by, it was worth every penny. But his car had been parked on the street for the past couple of days, and another vehicle was hidden behind the garage door.

  He’d wanted to keep the old Ford Mondeo out of view. He’d bought it from a crooked body shop, paying cash, knowing full well the owner of the garage wouldn’t put it through the books. The car was destined for the scrap heap anyway and most likely wouldn’t make it through an MOT. Not that Ryan cared about that. He was planning to drive it to the scrapper first thing in the morning.

  The number plate was partially obscured with a splatter of mud—something he was taking a gamble on. It increased his likelihood of being pulled over by a uniformed officer, but if that happened, he’d placed his bets on being able to talk his way out of it. Being stopped would screw up the rest of his plans, however, and he’d have to rethink, but he figured that was better than the alternative—having the plate identified via the increasingly large number of CCTV cameras around the city and it being traced back to him.

  He rounded the car and clicked open the boot, double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking he had everything he needed, and then climbed behind the wheel.

  He drove to the street where the block of council flats was located and parked on an unlit part of the road. Cole Fielding would be getting home within the next thirty minutes.

  Ryan yanked the hood up over his head and wedged the baseball cap down to hide his face. From previous surveillance, he’d already pinpointed exactly where the CCTV cameras were on this road, and even which of the flats had their own home security. Luckily, the poverty in this area meant they were few and far between. Anyone who’d dare to place such expensive equipment on the outside of their properties would most likely end up with it nicked anyway.

  He’d deliberately left his phone at home, aware it could be tracked, if needed, but right now he wished he’d brought it with him. He needed a distraction. What if the little bastard decided not to come straight back to the flat?

  Cole Fielding had only been released from prison first thing this morning and had already been set up with a job. It was only working behind the counter of a local Co-op, but Ryan didn’t think the fucker deserved even that. It was some do-gooder, outreach programme, handing ex-convicts a job and a place to live before they even got out in the hope that they wouldn’t go on to reoffend. Normally, Ryan would have supported such programmes, but he couldn’t in this case. It was bad enough that Cole had only been inside for a handful of years, but then to be handed a brand-new life with no effort on his part, sickened him.

  Where was he? Cole should have been here by now.

  Maybe he’d stopped by the pub or met up with some old friends, though Ryan wondered how many of them he had left after what had happened. At Cole’s age, all his old school buddies would probably have drifted off by now and forgotten about him. Gone on to do bigger and better things and left him behind.

  Good, it was the least the bastard deserved.

  Movement caught Ryan’s eye, and he sat up straighter, trying to get a better look. Sure enough, Cole sauntered down the street, his hands shoved in his pockets, and a ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression on his smug face. He kicked out at a Coke can, which hit a nearby parked car and bounced off again. Cole laughed.

  Prick.

  Rage filled Ryan, and he did his best to focus his emotions. Losing his shit now wasn’t going to help him. He needed to stay calm and in control. Reaching into the footwell of the car, he picked up an item he’d kept there for this moment.

  He waited until Cole had walked past—not noticing there was someone in the car—and then Ryan carefully opened the door and climbed out. Cheap earphones plugged Cole’s ears—not the wireless expensive brand kids wore these days, but the cheap kind that came free with the purchase of a mobile phone. That he had anything at all in this world only served to increase Ryan’s anger.

  The stairwell leading to each floor of the high-
rise was positioned on the outside, with only cracked and graffitied glass boxing it in. Ryan let Cole pull open the door and go inside, but before the heavy door could swing fully shut, Ryan put out a gloved hand and stopped it. In his other hand, he held a thick coil of rope.

  Mercifully, no one else was around, but even if they were, they wouldn’t have recognised him. He kept the hoodie up, the baseball cap yanked down over the top of it. At a glance, and from a distance, he guessed an onlooker would put him at a much younger age. Not a man in his forties.

  Ryan picked up on the tinny beat of the music from the headphones. Cole literally wouldn’t hear him coming.

  Gripping the rope in both hands, he took several fast strides up the staircase, behind Cole. When he was close enough, he hooked the rope over the top of the man’s head, so it settled around his neck in exactly the right position, and then snapped it tight.

  He yanked Cole off his feet, dragging him back down the handful of steps he’d managed to climb. Ryan lost his footing with the weight of the man and slipped down the final two steps but managed to stay upright.

  Cole might be young, but he was also only about five foot ten, and had a slender build. Though Ryan had twenty years on him, he was also an inch over six foot and had been preparing for this ever since he’d heard how soon the son of a bitch was getting out. Whatever spare time he had in between the job he spent down the gym, pushing himself harder, lifting heavier, driving himself to exhaustion.

  A strangled cry of surprise and anger burst from between the other man’s lips. Cole’s hands automatically went to the rope around his neck, scraping at it, trying to create space between the coarse fibres and his skin.

  Cole was strong, but Ryan couldn’t let him get the upper hand. There was too much chance of someone walking down the stairwell or spotting them from the street. He’d been lucky so far, in that things had remained quiet, but that luck was bound to run out eventually.

  Cole’s feet peddled against the concrete floor. Ryan pulled tighter on the rope. He didn’t intend to kill him—not yet anyway—but he needed him unconscious so he could move him.