Chase Down (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller Book 2)

by M K Farrar

  Chase Down

  Detective Ryan Chase Thriller

  M K Farrar

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CHASE DOWN

  First edition. October 11, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 M K Farrar.

  Written by M K Farrar.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chase Down (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller, #2)

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Cover design by Caroline Johnson

  Cover Images © Adobestock

  Get a free copy of ‘Twice the Lie’ when you sign up to M K Farrar’s newsletter

  mkfarrar.com

  Chapter One

  The LED lights of the digital clock flipped over to 3:00 a.m., and the snick of a catch opening was barely audible in the still house.

  In the bedrooms, the others slept on, unaware. Even the familiar creak of a floorboard as a foot pressed upon it didn’t alert them to the fact that they weren’t alone.

  He wasn’t overly worried about the noise. It was unlikely it would wake any of them. Even so, he’d taken precautions. The windows had internal latches, but he’d made sure to lock them and hide the keys. It was a cool night, so there shouldn’t have been any reason for the family to want the windows open and notice them missing. A chair wedged beneath a handle would prevent the doors being opened should someone wake.

  He stopped at the bedroom of the two adults. The steady breathing of the woman and the louder snore of the man vibrated through the air. How could she sleep with that going on? Of course, tonight he was far less likely to disturb her slumber.

  The weight of the knife felt good in his hand, like it belonged there, an extension of who he was. He had planned for this moment, but that didn’t change the conflicting swirl of emotions inside him. Things could have been so different. The wedge of disappointment had grown deeper day by day, and now it seemed to be splitting him open, like an axe inside a thick log.

  Carefully, he edged open the bedroom door. A crack from between the curtains allowed light to spill in from the street outside. City living meant it was never fully dark, or quiet. There were always people around, cars driving by, alarms going off. He liked that about living here. It meant someone moving around in the middle of the night was rarely noticed.

  The two sleeping forms of the adults lay lumped under the bedcovers. The woman faced the window, her dark hair partially hiding her face. The man lay on his back, his hands folded over his chest in a pose that was strangely reminiscent of someone in a coffin. He couldn’t help but smile at that thought. Had the man somehow predicted what was about to happen to him and had taken up the position? It didn’t help with the snoring, his mouth open, chin hanging slack.

  He switched hands with the knife. He wore gloves, so as not to leave any prints, and had a swim cap over his hair. He probably looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care about that. Anyone who was going to see him would be dead moments later, and he doubted they’d be worried about his appearance. They’d be more concerned about their loved ones, fearful of the same fate meeting them, which it would. He’d done his research. He had no intention of getting caught. No prints, no strands of hair left behind. He’d be sure not to leave his saliva anywhere either. And as for semen, he pulled a face in disgust. He was no pervert, and he wouldn’t have such a thing said about him either.

  He needed to deal with the man first. That would be his biggest potential problem. If he didn’t work fast and be decisive, things could go wrong, and he couldn’t afford for that to happen.

  He approached the bed and folded both hands around the hilt of the knife, one above the other, the blade pointing down. Still, no one showed any sign of being aware of his presence, their breathing remaining steady.

  This perfect family, and this perfect home. It was all a lie. He knew that. Now others would, too.

  He angled himself over the bed, the sharp point of the blade quivering mere inches from the man’s face. Excitement bubbled up through him, and he forced himself to take a calming breath. Once he put events into motion, there would be no going back, and he needed to keep his wits about him.

  The man’s eyes blinked open.

  Without another thought, he swung the knife, angling the blade so it punctured one of the man’s eyeballs, forcing the blade up into the brain. The man barely had a second to react, a strangled breath, a gasp of shock. His body stiffened as though a bolt of electricity had gone through him, his feet thrashing, before the lights went out forever.

  Beside him, the woman gave a small moan and shifted in her sleep. He’d done everything he could to try to prevent her waking, but it might not have been enough. The thrashing had been more than he’d anticipated, and now maybe her subconscious had alerted her to there being something wrong.

  She lifted her head, and muttered, but hadn’t yet turned his way. He froze, his heart knocking against the cage of his ribs. He held in a squeal of excitement, reining himself in. Did he hold still and hope she went back to sleep, or did he risk making more noise by yanking the knife out of the man’s eye socket?

  If he was going to continue with his plan, he was going to have to do it at some point.

  Bunching his muscles and gritting his teeth, he pulled at the knife. The noise and sensation of metal against bone did something strange to his teeth, hurting them down to the roots.

  The woman must have heard something as she rolled to face him just as the knife came free, the blade almost black with blood in the poor light.

  Her eyes sprang open, and she let out a shriek and threw herself backwards, falling out of bed. She got caught up in the duvet, so her legs were still tangled on the mattress, her bottom and hands now on the floor.

  He didn’t waste any more time. He rounded the bed, the knife brandished in one hand.

  She opened her mouth and screamed.

  He was more worried about the neighbours hearing something than the reaction of those left in the house. If they’d heard that scream, they might realise something was up and call the police. He’d been able to plan for those within the house, but not those outside of these walls. The property was terraced and so was attached to neighbours on both sides. He’d have preferred the place to b
e detached, but he couldn’t help that.

  He leaned down and grabbed her hair in his fist, holding her steady. She lashed out at him, battering him with her fists. She tried to kick, but her legs were still covered in the padding of the duvet, and she only succeeded in getting herself more tangled. He wrenched her head back by her hair and brought the blade in a decisive line across her throat. Her body bucked, and hot blood spurted across his face. Damn it. That was a mess. He would have liked to avoid a mess, but he guessed it couldn’t be helped.

  Beneath him, the woman gurgled, the same kind of noise her husband had made, but she seemed unaware of where she was or what was happening to her.

  He stood over her and waited. It took longer this time. Her body bleeding out, the light gradually dimming from her eyes. He wished he could hear what was going on in her head. What were her final thoughts? Was she thinking of her daughter in the other room and praying the girl wouldn’t be next? Or was the fear of dying even greater than the love for her offspring?

  Finally, her struggles slowed, and she slumped and fell still, her jaw slack, her chest a dark apron of blood. It had soaked into the carpet beneath her and spattered across the walls and the bed, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t as though he’d be cleaning up the room.

  Banging came from the room across the landing, but he’d taken precautions. She wouldn’t get out.

  He left the parents’ bedroom and stepped out onto the landing. He rolled his neck and shoulders, loosening the muscles, the knife dangling from his hand at his side. His gaze alit on the closed bedroom door and the chair propped beneath the handle.

  She was next.

  Chapter Two

  The street in Bedminster, Bristol, looked like so many others in the area. A row of terraced Victorian houses stood on both sides, the pavement bordered by cars parked bumper to bumper. Those same cars were now blocked from leaving by a couple of police response vans at either end. It was four-thirty on Monday afternoon, and residents returning from work discovered themselves unable to drive down their road.

  DI Ryan Chase had stopped outside the outer cordon and walked the rest, ducking under the inner cordon and flashing his ID at the officers. More marked police cars were in the middle of the street, blocking the way.

  Neighbours held one another, sobbing into each other’s arms, or staring, pale-faced at the scene before them, anxiously chewing their nails, in shock that something so terrible could happen in their own neighbourhood. The realisation it could have been them, their families who’d been brutally slaughtered in their beds, had hit them hard.

  Ryan spotted the police sergeant coordinating the scene. She was talking to a couple of other officers, so he walked over to join her.

  Sergeant Laura Frome was a severe-looking woman in her fifties, her hair bleached so blonde it was almost white and pulled back from her face in a French braid.

  “Ah, DI Chase, you’re here. Terrible business,” she said, her lips pinched tight. “Who would do such a thing?”

  An ordinary neighbourhood in Bristol had become the scene of a shockingly violent multiple murder, including a teenager and a young girl.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Ryan said. “What have you got so far?”

  “Four bodies. Two adults and two children, a boy and a girl, aged sixteen and eleven respectively. We haven’t had an official ID done yet, but according to friends and neighbours, they are Hugh and Liz Wyndham, and the kids are Sheldon and Dulcie. The alarm was raised by a friend of the family, thirty-seven-year-old Alison Perry. Dulcie never showed up at school today. The school had phoned the mobile numbers they had on record for both parents, but both phones went straight through to answerphone. When neither the child nor parents still hadn’t shown up by the end of school, Mrs Perry decided to pop round and noticed all the curtains were drawn in the house, which was unusual for that time of day. She tried shouting through the letter box, and still didn’t get an answer. She trusted her instinct that something was wrong and called the police. Uniformed officers gained access to the property and discovered the bodies in each of the bedrooms.”

  “The house was locked from the inside?” Ryan asked.

  “That’s right, and they had a house alarm armed that went off when the officers gained access. There was no break-in, at least not that we can see anyway. No broken windows, no forced locks, or anything like that.”

  “And the alarm was set? Could it be a murder-suicide?”

  “Possibly, but you’re going to need to take a look at the scene. There are a few things that don’t quite add up.”

  Movement farther down the street caught his attention, and he turned as his partner, DS Mallory Lawson, strode towards them.

  Sorry, she mouthed at him—an apology for being late. She’d texted him earlier to explain that she’d been having problems with her brother, Oliver. He’d been having nightmares ever since he’d accidentally started a small fire in their kitchen, and even though that had been several months ago now, it didn’t seem as though he was going to get over it quickly.

  “This is my partner, DS Lawson,” he introduced to the sergeant.

  Frome stuck out her hand. “Laura Frome,” she said, and Mallory returned the handshake.

  Ryan quickly brought Mallory up to speed.

  She shook her head. “That poor family.”

  “I know,” Ryan agreed. “The city is going to the dogs.”

  On the drive over, Ryan had noted the number of shops with metal shutters pulled down over the storefronts, graffiti scribbled across them. With the exception of the wealthier areas like Clifton, much of the city seemed to be on a decline. This latest incident only helped to confirm that.

  Frome continued. “The mother, Liz Wyndham, sent a text to her friend, Alison Perry, last night at nine-forty, so we’re assuming the family were all right then. Whoever did this must have committed the murders sometime during the night.”

  “What did the text say?” Mallory asked.

  “Just that she was tired and couldn’t believe it was almost Monday already.” Frome shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be anything important. I’ve got my officers going door to door interviewing each of the neighbours to find out if any of them saw or heard anything.”

  Ryan nodded. “Can your team find out if any of the neighbours have home security as well?”

  “Of course.”

  The increasing use of things like ‘Ring’ doorbells that had cameras in them was growing and could prove to be handy in cases like these. He glanced up at the red alarm box attached to the outside of the house.

  “It’s a shame the family didn’t have CCTV as well as the home security.” Ryan looked down the congested street. “Let’s check each of these cars as well, make sure they each belong to the residents, and there isn’t one that’s out of place.”

  He spotted the coroner’s car among them.

  “Who’s the attending coroner?” He tried to sound casual.

  “Nikki Francis,” Frome said.

  Ryan tried to ignore the slight uptick of his pulse. He hadn’t had too much to do with Nikki since he’d walked out on her on their one disastrous date that summer. The memory of it still made him cringe. They’d exchanged a few work emails since then but had kept it professional. Their paths had crossed a couple of times, but he’d sent Mallory down to speak to her, if he could. It wasn’t something he was proud of.

  “Okay, let’s go inside.”

  Ryan approached the house, he and Mallory pulling on protective outerwear as they went. A uniformed officer guarded the scene, and Ryan offered him a nod as they passed. It was important to have as few people in the house as possible, preventing any contamination of the crime scene.

  The front door already stood open, revealing the original Victorian tiled floor, combined with duck-egg blue walls. SOCO were busy at work, dusting for prints, and footprints, and checking for any signs of blood.

  Ryan entered the hallway and popped his head into the living room
briefly. The bay window offered a view onto the street and the medley of people beyond. The place was tastefully decorated, spacious with high ceilings and original cornices. A paperback, that would never get finished, lay open on the arm of the cream sofa, and a games console sat beneath the stand for the flat-screen television. There were no signs of violence in the room. Someone could walk through this house and be completely unaware of the tragedy that had occurred upstairs.

  Ryan left the living room and followed Frome up the stairs, Mallory close behind.

  “The master bedroom is straight ahead,” Frome said, “and is where both bodies of the two adults were found. The middle room is the teenage son’s bedroom, and the box room at the end belonged to the daughter. All four were found in their rooms. Let’s take a look at the adults first.”

  Ryan entered the master bedroom to discover someone was already there. Even beneath the protective clothing, Ryan recognised the blonde hair, blue eyes, and glasses of Nikki Francis.

  Nikki noticed she had company and straightened from where she’d been leaning over the body of Hugh Wyndham.

  “Hello, Ryan,” she said. “Long time no see.”

  He was battling between being pleased to see her and trying not to drown in his own awkwardness. “Nikki, how are you?”

  She nodded. “Good, busy with work.”

  “People just keep on dying,” he said, using what he hoped she’d take as humour to hide his discomfort.

  “I guess it’s good for business,” she threw back.

  An outsider might raise an eyebrow at their conversation, especially considering the gravity of the situation, but sometimes it felt like the only way to stop himself from going crazy. He still sensed a flirtation between them, a lingering eye contact, their close proximity. There was the potential for a relationship, if only he could get a hold of his issues, but he didn’t want to risk work colleagues finding out about his OCD. He prided himself in his ability to do his job—it was the one thing he had left after losing his daughter and his marriage breaking down—and he didn’t want to screw that up as well. He thought that Mallory had an inkling that all wasn’t quite right with him, but she was the person he was closest to, and he trusted that she’d keep her mouth shut, unless she thought it was affecting his ability to do his job.