Chase Down (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller Book 2)

by M K Farrar

  “How did it go?” he asked when he answered. “What are your thoughts on the Lewis family?”

  “We can’t rule them out completely since their only alibis for the night of the murder are each other, but I didn’t get any hint that they were hiding anything. They said they hadn’t needed to look after the house since Liz put the alarm in, so they had no idea what the code was.”

  “But then they would say that if they’d used it to murder the family.”

  “True. I just didn’t feel they were trying to hide anything—at least nothing that extreme. Mr Lewis got a bit terse when I was asking about the relationship between them all, but I’m not sure if perhaps he suspected there might have been something more between Hugh Wyndham and Elouise, or he just didn’t like the implication that he might have known more about the murders than he was letting on.”

  Ryan didn’t respond for a moment, and then his sigh came down the line. “Okay, can you check with the other neighbours, find out if there were ever any rumours going around about a rift between the two families? Also see if there’s anyone else who saw the Lewises around the Wyndham house before the murders.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Mallory’s stomach told her it was lunchtime. She could spare twenty minutes to get a bite to eat. The neighbours would have to wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ryan grabbed an hour at lunch to take Donna some soup and see how she was doing. As expected, she was feeling rough. He found her curled up on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders, and a woolly hat pulled down over her naked head. It was always hardest for her in the days that followed the chemo; the nausea and pins and needles in her hands and feet were all-encompassing.

  “I hate that you’re living on your own,” he told her after he’d decanted the soup into a bowl and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. “What if something happened and you weren’t able to call an ambulance?”

  “I’m fine, Ryan. I’m having chemo. I’ve not suddenly reverted back to toddlerhood.”

  “I can move back in for a while,” he offered. “I could take care of you.”

  She gave him a derisive look. “Seriously, do you think you living here would be any good for either of us? There was a reason you moved out.”

  Deep down, he was relieved. As much as he had no emotional connection with his crappy flat, it was his own space that he could do whatever he wanted in. The last thing Donna needed was him wandering around all night, checking and rechecking doors and windows, and keeping her awake. She’d notice and ask questions of him that he didn’t want to answer. It would only worry her, when she already had enough to worry about. Plus, he had no idea how he’d react to being back in the house again and if it would flare up his OCD. He’d had it under reasonable control recently, and he did everything he could to manage it. He was already feeling the pressure of this case, the frustration of not getting anywhere, and knowing the killer was still out there. Everyone expected him to catch the bastard.

  “Okay, you’re probably right,” he admitted, “but you know the offer stands if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind.”

  What if the chemo doesn’t work? What if you keep getting sicker? Who’s going to take care of you then?

  He didn’t voice his concerns. She wanted—and needed—to stay positive about this journey and the last thing she needed was him writing her off already.

  “At least Hayley never had to see me like this,” Donna said.

  That took him aback. “Don’t say that.”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” She gestured at her head. “I probably would have terrified her.”

  “Donna, you wouldn’t have terrified her. She loved you, and would have continued to love you, maybe even more because she would see how incredibly strong and brave her mother is.”

  Donna blinked back tears, and Ryan’s chest tightened. Donna wasn’t a crier, or someone who wallowed in self-pity, so she must be feeling really low to be thinking like this. He also wasn’t great with anyone when they were upset, especially about something as serious as this.

  “Can I call one of your friends? Get them to come and sit with you?”

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “No, I’m fine, honestly. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You’re allowed to cry, Donna. You’re allowed to feel angry and sad, and scared, and everything else you’re feeling. Your daughter died, you got cancer, and your dickhead of a boyfriend left you.” He didn’t add, ‘and your marriage broke down’. “Anyone dealing with just one of those things would have the right to cry, never mind all three.”

  “It’s been a long time since Hayley—”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier. Missing her will always be a part of you.” He risked a smile. “I’m not sure about crying over Dickhead, though.”

  The small joke paid off, and she smiled back. “I wasn’t crying over him.”

  Maybe she was telling the truth right now, but he was sure she’d shed some tears, no matter what Ryan thought of her ex.

  “I have to get back to the office. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Yes, go. I know you have a big case. I have my phone to get in touch if I need anything. And thank you for the soup. Hopefully, I’ll be able to taste it.”

  The chemo had done strange things to her tastebuds as well. Sometimes, it seemed to Ryan, that the cure was as bad as the cancer.

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead, and then let himself out of the house. It felt strange being back. Even though it wasn’t his home any longer, and hadn’t been for some time, it was hard not to feel as though he still belonged there.

  As he approached his car, his phone rang.

  “DI Chase,” he answered.

  “Ryan, hi, it’s Townsend.”

  It was the detective who’d been in charge of his daughter’s case after the accident. His stomach dropped, a rush of cold flooding through his veins. Just hearing the other man’s voice felt like he’d fallen back into that time when both he and Donna were fresh in the moment of trying to figure out how they were supposed to exist in a world without their daughter.

  “How are you?” Ryan asked. “Is everything all right?”

  “I felt I should keep you informed about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cole Fielding woke up yesterday. I thought you should know.”

  His knees went, and he found himself grappling for the roof of his car to keep himself upright. “He woke up? I thought that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “It was always a possibility. An unlikely one, but a possibility nevertheless.”

  A vision of himself standing on a bridge flashed through Ryan’s mind. It was night, and the roar of a river rushed beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t a memory. It was another intrusive thought. He hadn’t had anything to do with what had happened to Cole. Had he?

  If it was me, Cole will be able to say exactly what happened now.

  Being unconscious, Cole had never been able to give a statement of his own. The police just had to put together the pieces—the note he’d left, a guilty conscience, the rope tied to the bridge. But if he was awake, he could tell the police about the events that landed him in hospital.

  It should be a relief. If Cole was able to confirm the police’s suspicions, then Ryan’s fear he had been responsible would be dissipated. He’d know for sure that he hadn’t done something to the young man, however much he might have thought and fantasised about it.

  Ryan opened his car door and climbed behind the wheel, before slamming the door shut behind him again. He didn’t think there was much chance of Donna overhearing the conversation, especially since she was pretty much tied to the couch, and if she saw him talking on the phone, she’d just assume it was a work call, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

  “Is...is he talking?” Ryan dared to ask.

  “He’s
simply conscious at this point. I’m not sure he’s going to be capable of talking, after everything he’s been through.”

  “What he’s been through?” The turn of phrase made Ryan incredulous, and a familiar surge of anger rose inside him.

  “Sorry,” Townsend said. “You know what I mean.”

  Did Ryan feel relieved at that news, or not? If there was a possibility that he didn’t do what he feared, wasn’t it better to know for sure? But what if he was responsible for what had happened?

  No, you were home that night, he told himself. The neighbour confirmed it. When he’d gone and asked about a car being scrapped, the owner of the garage had shaken his head and said, nope, no car had been brought to the garage to be scrapped. But was that just because Ryan had told him the whole thing was never to be spoken of again, and being a police officer, the garage owner had thought it had been some kind of test Ryan had been putting him through.

  Besides, while he had wanted to know, he also hadn’t wanted to say or do anything that would incriminate himself.

  Ryan reminded himself that he was the good guy. He hadn’t been the one to run over a little girl and then flee the scene of the crime and hide out until his blood alcohol levels had dropped enough to prevent him getting a death by dangerous driving charge.

  Ryan tried again. “He hasn’t been able to say what happened to him then?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Is it possible he’ll be able to at some point then?”

  “Honestly, Ryan, I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. They said it would be unlikely he’d ever wake up, but the family wanted to hold on, not wanting to give up on him. God knows why, we could do with one less murderous piece of shit in this country, if you ask me.”

  Ryan agreed with Townsend.

  “All I ever wanted was for him to spend the correct amount of time in prison for killing Hayley. We all knew he’d been drinking that day and then he got behind the wheel of that car. The judge got it wrong that time. He should never have been out from behind bars for that...incident...to ever have happened.”

  “I can’t say how much I agree with you, Ryan. This must be so hard for you, and for Donna, too, knowing he’s on the road to recovery after what he took from you.”

  Ryan’s stomach dropped for a second time. Shit, Donna. What was he going to do about Donna? He needed to think about that. She had so much on her plate right now, getting news like this could really set her back.

  Ryan cleared his throat. “Listen, Townsend, is there any way we can stop this news from reaching Donna? She’s having chemo right now and the last thing she needs is to have to worry about that arsehole on top of everything else.”

  “Oh shit. Yeah, of course. I mean, I can’t stop her hearing it from outside sources, but I promise it won’t come from me.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  Ryan ended the call, threw his phone to one side, and sat with his head in his hands. His thoughts were a whirling dervish of worries and fears, his heart knocking against his rib cage. He found himself counting his fingers, placing his thumb to each one in turn, starting at his index finger, moving to his middle and on to the next.

  One, two, three, four... One, two, three, four.

  Over and over, he counted, until his heart finally slowed, and his thoughts calmed.

  What was it that had upset him so much? Was it the news that Cole Fielding was on the road to recovery, or was it his fear of the truth finally coming out?

  Chapter Eighteen

  It took Ryan longer than he would have liked to admit to pull himself together enough to go back into work. This wasn’t what he needed while he was in charge of such a high-profile case. He needed to focus on work, but his brain was pinging with anxiety. He wanted to find out just how awake Cole Fielding was, but other than going to visit the other man in hospital, he couldn’t see how that was possible. He toyed with the idea of going in and using his status as a police detective to get past the gatekeepers of the nurses and doctors, but that wouldn’t exactly be ethical.

  Right now, he was needed at work. He spent the afternoon following up on where each of his team were with their actions. The phone number flagged on Hugh Wyndham’s phone was traced to Elouise Lewis, supporting her story. Ryan still hadn’t written off the Lewises as potential suspects, but he also couldn’t allow himself to be fixated on them when he had no proof to back up his suspicions.

  Mallory had spent several hours interviewing neighbours again, but this time with the slant of there being issues between the Wyndhams and the Lewises, but had come up empty-handed.

  He was trying not to worry about Mallory, on top of everything else. Had she met a bloke who wasn’t treating her right? She hadn’t mentioned going on any dates—but then was that something she’d talk to him about? She’d never been much of a dater, as far as he was aware, mainly because she didn’t have time. She always had her hands full with either work or taking care of her brother. But he’d been around the block long enough to recognise an injury when it had been caused by a fist instead of a cupboard door, as she’d claimed. He made a mental note to keep an extra eye on her.

  Towards the end of the day, a phone call came in from Ben Glazier, the SOCO coordinator.

  “Tell me you’ve got some news,” Ryan said wearily.

  “I’ve got some news.”

  Ryan straightened in his seat. “Tell me.”

  “We’ve matched the hemp and wool fibres found at the crime scene. They’re from blanket insulation.”

  “Insulation? Like the kind found in the walls of houses.”

  “Or found in lofts,” Ben said.

  “Lofts? Shit.” His theory the perp had been hiding somewhere in the house while the family went to bed hadn’t been far from his mind. “That’s where the killer was hiding. They must have brought some of the insulation fibres down on them when they attacked the family.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking as well. I’ve got officers searching the space again now. We checked it initially for anyone hiding there and nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but now we’ll look at it with fresh eyes.”

  “Are you at the property?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty.”

  ***

  True to his word, half an hour later, Ryan was pulling on protective outerwear and climbing a ladder into the loft space of the Wyndhams’ house. Being over six feet, he had to duck and half crawl to avoid hitting his head on the wooden struts that held up the roof, but then he was able to straighten into the highest point where there was enough head height. Floodlights had been brought in to illuminate the otherwise dark space, and he spotted fluffy yellow insulation material poking through the roof structure. Brushing against it would easily transfer fibres onto skin or clothes.

  Two other people shared the loft space with him. One was Ben Glazier, and the other was a female Scenes of Crime officer.

  “Found anything?” Ryan asked Ben.

  “Nothing obvious, but we’re dusting for prints. Watch where you’re stepping. It would be easy enough to go through the ceiling if your foot slips.”

  To move around the loft, he had to step from rafter to rafter, careful where he put his size ten feet.

  From between the rafters, a flash of silver caught his eye. He stopped and with a gloved hand, bent to pick up the item. It was wedged beneath the wood, squashed against the insulation, so had been easy to miss—he would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching where he was stepping. He pulled the item back up and placed it into an evidence bag.

  “What do you make of this?” He held the bag up.

  Ben frowned. “A fork? What would a fork be doing in the loft?”

  “Someone must have brought it up here. Maybe they dropped it and didn’t realise. What reason would someone have for bringing a fork up here other than using it to eat with, and if someone has been eating up here, I’d say they were here for more than just a few hours.”r />
  “You think someone has been living in the loft?”

  Ryan expelled a breath. “I think it’s a possibility. We might get lucky and be able to get a DNA sample or prints from the fork.”

  Ben took the bag from him. “I’ll get it submitted as evidence ASAP. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  “I’ll keep everything crossed,” Ryan said. “We could use a breakthrough on this case.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  That night, Ryan checked his front door was locked—as was his usual ritual—and went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, stripped down to his underwear, and got into bed. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts tumultuous. He should be focusing on the case right now, turning over every possibility about who had murdered the Wyndham family, but instead his thoughts were with Cole Fielding. He wished he never had to think about that son of a bitch ever again, and instead his head was full of him.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and counted backwards from one hundred, trying to stop his racing mind.

  If Cole woke and thought that Ryan had something to do with what had happened to him, would he come after him? Would he think Ryan had taken out his revenge and put him in a coma? Would he be wrong?

  A second thought crept in. Did I lock the front door?

  Yes, he had. He remembered doing it.

  Do I remember locking it, or is that a memory from last night?

  It was just an OCD thought, and he knew from his research into his condition that he should just acknowledge it for what it was and move on. But the trouble with the intrusive thoughts were that once they’d entered his head, they wouldn’t go away again until he’d given in to them. It was like waking during the night and needing to use the bathroom—the feeling wouldn’t go away until he gave in and went.

  With a huff of exasperation, he threw back the bedcovers and crossed through the flat. He reached the front door and yanked up the door handle. It was locked.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.