Caffeine Nights Publishing
Chasing Ghosts
Michael Fowler
Fiction aimed at the heart
and the head...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2016
Copyright © Michael Fowler 2016
Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
www.caffeinenights.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-910720-50-9
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
CHASING GHOSTS
‘If you are not looking for something you don’t see it.’
MICHAEL FOWLER
Readers praise for Michael Fowler
Amazon top ten bestseller
5.0 out of 5 stars
I have read all Michael Fowler's books and been disappointed by none. Biggest drawback is I read them faster than he can write them. Diane Hodgson
5.0 out of 5 stars Brilliant
I choose this book because I knew Michael Fowler would keep me from doing my housework once I opened my kindle to begin. Anyone who enjoys a brilliantly well written crime thriller then it is a must to purchase this and Fowlers three other books. Now I have to wait for number five. D A Chandler
5.0 out of 5 stars Heart Of The Demon .. great page turner!
My first book by Michael Fowler but it certainly won't be my last. Excellent, gripping storyline, told from both sides - the police trying to catch the killer and the killer himself. A book I didn't want to put down and can highly recommend. Liverbird5
5.0 out of 5 stars Good read
After reading the reviews about Michael Fowler, I thought I would download his first book. I was not disappointed. I enjoyed the story line and I enjoyed the relationship between Hunter Kerr and his gang. After reading his book, I have since downloaded his other books and l have enjoyed them all.
Julie E Somerset
5.0 out of 5 stars Page turner
This book is as good if not better than the first one. Turning between the professional and private life of D.S. Kerr. It shows just how much work goes into solving a case.
Carolyn Woodson
5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars!
All the books in the Michael fowler books are absolute breath-taking.
Eileen Grayon
Michael Fowler was born and brought up in the Dearne Valley area of Yorkshire where he still lives with his wife.
At the age of 16 he left school with the ambition of going to art college but his parents’ financial circumstances meant he had to find work and so he joined the police.
He has never regretted that decision, serving as a police officer for thirty-two years, both in uniform and in plain clothes, working in CID, and undercover in Vice Squad and Drug Squad, retiring as an Inspector in charge of a busy CID in 2006.
Since leaving, Michael has embarked on two careers: he is an established author with two crime series to his name: DS Hunter Kerr and DS Scarlett Macey, he has also co-written a true crime story.
He is a member of the Crime Writers Association and International Thriller Writers.
Michael has also found considerable success as an artist, receiving numerous artistic accolades. Currently his work can be found in the galleries of Spencer Coleman Fine Arts at Lincoln and Stamford.
Find out more atwww.mjfowler.co.uk
or follow him on Twitter @MichaelFowler1.
Also Like Michael on Facebook.
Also by Michael Fowler
DS Hunter Kerr series
Heart of the Demon
Cold Death
Secrets of the Dead
Coming, Ready or Not
Black & Blue (e-book novella)
Scarlett Macey series
Scream, You Die!
True crime
Safecracker
FOREWORD
I have always had a passion for writing and twenty-something years ago I begun venturing to writers’ groups to develop my writing skills. Those sessions brought about many experiments, lots of first chapters, short stories and also story lines and plots. The idea for this crime suspense thriller started out during one of those sessions in 1992. It was typed on a word processor, ran to just over 100 pages and was my first completed crime story. Then, like now, it was a novella and although the locations have changed and some characters have been added since that early piece, fundamentally, this story is the same. I hope you enjoy.
Michael Fowler
This is dedicated to my good friend Terry Wigley. I miss our chats.
1
The throbbing in his head started the moment he broke from sleep. In some discomfort, Toby Alexander rolled over and slowly opened his eyes. Without warning a torrent of intense sunlight flooded his vision, adding to the pain. Letting out a moan he threw up a hand for protection and slammed shut his eyelids. In that instance it felt like a jackhammer had started work on the back of his retinas and it made him feel sick. Letting out another soft whine he lay like that for several seconds waiting for the flashing stars to subside, wishing away his hangover. Then he flicked open his eyes for a second time. Judging by the brightness pouring through the central gap in the curtains, and given that it was early spring, he guessed it was either very late morning, or early afternoon. He made an attempt at sitting up. Suddenly he felt the atmosphere within the bedroom closing in and the room began spinning. Snapping shut his eyes again he took a deep breath and told himself to get a grip. It took him the best part of half a minute to stop the nausea and pull himself together, and then gingerly re-opening his eyes he kick-started his thoughts into remembering last night's events, especially how he got here. How had he got home? Nothing was filtering through into his aching head. He rolled over to Carrie’s side to see how she was – to see if she could remind him, but her side of the bed was empty and, judging by the undisturbed pillows, it looked as though she hadn’t slept there. The thought of her jarred his conscience, igniting a vortex of blurred images inside his head. They were fleeting but they were enough to jog his memory that they had argued … again. He cursed. Why did he do this? Why couldn’t he control his temper? He knew he would be facing the silent treatment once more from Carrie and would have some serious making up to do. There had been too many times of late. Taking another deep breath, he flung himself into action, swinging his legs out over the bed. Starting to rise, he had to catch himself as light-headed dizziness engulfed him and he coul
d feel sweat forming on his brow. He clawed for air and held the breath. Within twenty seconds the moment had passed and, easing himself up, he soft-footed out of the bedroom and onto the landing. The guest bedroom door was ajar and he peeked around to see if Carrie was asleep there. The room was empty – the bed didn’t look as if it had been disturbed either.
She must have slept on the sofa.
Returning to the bedroom he noticed for the first time the tangle of his clothes on the floor beneath the window. Clothes he’d worn last night. Thin strips of soft light from the bottom gap in the curtains played on them and he could see they looked to be in a state. He picked up his jeans as if handling contaminated waste and ran his eyes over them. They were caked in mud and damp. What on earth’ happened? Where’s this from? He took another disgusted look at them and dropped them back on the pile. At the bottom of his bed were his boxers. He saw that these were unsullied, he pulled them on and ambled his way into the bathroom. Running the tap in the sink he gazed into the mirror. His skin was waxy and sheathed in perspiration. He looked shit. He felt shit. Swilling his face in cold water, he towelled and made his way downstairs. The lounge door was open and, although the room was in semi darkness because the heavy drapes were closed, he could see that the sofa was empty. He stood for a second and listened. The house was quiet. Sighing, he made his way into the kitchen-cum-diner. As he entered, a cool breeze met him, making him shudder, and he realised where it was coming from when he spotted that the rear door to the garden was open.
She must be getting some fresh air.
As he stepped into the kitchen he stood on something sharp which made him yelp, snapping up his foot he saw blood beginning to dot the flagstone floor. At the same time, he spotted fragments of broken glass and one of the dining chairs on its side. Another overwhelming sense of wooziness began to envelope him and he grabbed at the work surface to steady himself. He could feel his body breaking into a clammy sweat and he drew in a lungful of air and held it. Within a couple of seconds, the faint feeling had receded, and, exhaling slowly he took couple of hops to the sink where he turned on the tap and threw more cold water onto his face. He took another deep breath, balanced himself, and pulled up his leg to grab his ankle. Blood was dripping from beneath his foot, steady droplets splashing the floor. He twisted round his foot to view the injury. There was a gash close to his big toe, a small piece of glass embedded in the wound. Groaning, he reached for the tea towel, and with thumb and forefinger carefully prised out the shard, quickly binding up his foot with the towel as a globule of blood appeared in the slit. Twisting the loose ends into a tourniquet, he stared back to where he had stepped on the broken glass. Near to the upturned chair he spotted two damaged stems and, widening his gaze, he saw that a large area of the floor was littered with shards. He instantly realised it was the remnants of a couple of wineglasses he had stepped on. But then, what especially caught his eye was the dark red crusted stain covering one of the large Cornish stone flags. The puddle of congealed blood snapped him out of his languor.
2
Just what on earth’s gone on here? He wondered, dragging back his eyes and knotting the towel as best he could around his foot. He stared at the fragments of glass scattered across the floor and took in the dried puddle-stain of blood again and tried to focus on last night. More ghostly images drifted into his thoughts. Now he could recall, some of their argument had been staged in the kitchen… but he didn’t remember this happening.
What with this and the condition of his clothes upstairs. Christ! What the bloody hell’s happened?
He pushed himself away from the work top he had been using as support and hobbled to the back door to look for Carrie. On the threshold a gentle but cold wind brushed his face as he explored the garden and vegetable patch. She wasn’t there, and his gaze took him to the uneven and broken boundary hedgerow into the rolling meadow where it sloped toward Merthen Point. It was a place she regularly took herself to think – especially after a quarrel.
In the distance he could hear the Atlantic Ocean pounding Coffin Rock.
She was nowhere to be seen.
Closing the back door, he checked the towel bandage was still tight and, avoiding the broken glass, half-hopped, half-hobbled to the front door. He saw the key was in the lock on this side and he turned the handle. It was unlocked. He flung it open. There was only his car on the drive – Carrie’s had gone.
She had done this before – steamed off in a huff, but usually she let him know about it with a dramatic display of temper. Sneaking off like this wasn’t her style at all. Then he thought about the congealed blood in the kitchen and wondered if she’d taken herself to the hospital. It had to be that, he told himself, but he wanted to be sure, so he hopped upstairs to the bedroom where he checked her wardrobe and then the chest of drawers. All her clothing was there. He heaved a sigh of relief and dropped down heavily onto the edge of the bed.
More of their squabble was coming back to him – some of the hurtful things he’d hurled at Carrie. He also remembered taking the couple of wraps of cocaine which he’d washed down with wine when he was already drunk. He wondered if that’s why he was having difficulty chaining last night’s events together.
He shook his head. He’d screwed up again. I can be such a bastard sometimes.
He needed to check she was okay, so, returning to his crumpled and muddy jeans he hoisted them up and rifled through the soggy pockets for his mobile phone. Finding it, he brought up Carrie’s contact tab and hit the phone image. He listened to it dialling out, willing her to answer. It rang for ten seconds before switching to voicemail. For a split-second he thought about leaving her a message – but then dismissed it – he would rather apologise to her personally so he ended the call and hit redial. It rang out again but was unanswered. He could feel himself getting agitated. Irritated, he typed ‘Where are you’, and was just about to send the text when he had second thoughts and added ‘I’m sorry’ before mailing it. For five minutes he sat on the edge of the bed staring at his mobile, waiting for a response, but none came.
This is just typical of her. Making him suffer like this!
Slinging his phone onto the pillow he decided to go for a soak in the bath to calm down. His head was still pounding.
3
Removing the towel, Toby saw that the wound had already began to clot and, scrutinising it further, determined that it wasn’t too deep – the glass had gone in at an angle and it only required a plaster. Following a warm bath, he sought out the bathroom first aid box, applied treatment and made his way downstairs where he spent the remainder of the morning tidying up the kitchen – binning the broken glass, scrubbing away the dried blood, and washing his soiled clothes. In between he drank coffee and water to re-hydrate himself; he rang Carrie’s phone, but she still didn’t pick up.
By mid-afternoon his hangover was waning and he made himself a cheese sandwich and ate it slowly while watching television, but he found himself unable to focus - more of last night’s fight had come back to him while he had been cleaning up and he was feeling ashamed and guilty. By five o’clock his guilt had changed to concern and, thinking about the bloodstain he had scrubbed up and bleached that morning, he decided to ring the hospital.
Penzance was the nearest one. He dialled the hospital switchboard and asked to be put through to the Accident & Emergency department where he enquired after Carrie Jefferies. He was told no one had come in of that name and he asked the receptionist to double-check. The answer was the same.
At 7p.m. and with a sense of frustration, he telephoned his friends James and Tammy Callaghan – it was at their house that he and Carrie had spent the previous evening. James answered.
‘‘James it’s Toby.’’
‘I wondered when you’d ring.’
Toby caught a harsh tone in his friend’s voice. He took a deep breath and said, ‘I think I need to apologise.’
There was a moment’s silence on the other end then James responded, ‘
Not to me you don’t but I hope you have to Carrie, and it would be fair to say Tammy’s not too impressed with you either.’
‘Was I that bad?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I can’t remember much of it at all, just a few snippets.’
‘I’m not surprised. You were off your face by the end of the evening. You’re lucky Carrie drove you home. Tammy wouldn’t have done if it had been me.’ There was another pause and then James added, ‘What on earth got into you? I’ve seen you get pissed Toby, and argumentative, but last night was the worst I’ve seen you. Why did you go off on one like you did?’
For a moment Toby thought about what James had said but his answer was too long, and in any case it wasn’t justification for the previous evening’s outburst, so he replied, ‘I don’t know James. A culmination of a lot of things I suppose, but it’s no excuse and so I apologise again.’ Pausing he furthered, ‘I hope we’re still okay – you and I?’
‘You and I are okay. As I say, Tammy was really pissed off because it spoilt a good evening, but it’s Carrie we were worried about. You said some pretty nasty things to her.’
Toby pursed his lips, ‘I know. She didn’t deserve it.’
On a low note James responded, ‘No she didn’t. She’s the best thing that’s happened to you. You’re going to end up losing her if you continue like that.’
Chasing Ghosts: A Detective Jack Buchan Novel Page 1