Kill Chase (A Detective Ryan Chase Thriller Book 1)

by M K Farrar

  Did she think this was some kind of kinky game? She’d never given him the impression she was into that kind of thing. She’d seemed shy, withdrawn, even.

  Clara got off the bed and stood over him. “I told you, I’m not done with you yet.”

  “Seriously, Clara, this isn’t funny.”

  He yanked at the handcuff, pulling on it hard. The metal dug into his wrist, marking his skin. The headboard was made up of several metal bars in a brushed silver, the base of which was attached to the divan base of the bed.

  He’d been so focused on trying to figure out how to get the handcuff off the bars that he hadn’t noticed Clara had walked around to the other side of the bed. Before he knew what was happening, a second cuff clicked around his other wrist, and she wrenched his arm backwards—her strength shocking—and clicked that to the headboard as well.

  His arms were spreadeagled now, like he was being crucified. “Clara, what the hell are you doing?”

  She picked up the clothes she’d discarded the previous night and yanked on her jeans and tugged her t-shirt over her head. She moved to the end of the bed so she could look down at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she made no move to wipe them away.

  “You leave me. You all leave me. What’s so wrong with me, huh? What’s so fucking wrong with me that you men think you can just pick me up and use me and never want anything more to do with me?”

  “I never said that, Clara. I said we could do this again sometime.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she scoffed. “Like I haven’t heard that before. You’ll take my number and promise to phone, and yet you never will.”

  “I...I don’t have a phone, Clara. You know that.”

  She looked like a different person, her face contorted with fury.

  “Any excuse,” she spat. “Don’t you think I’ve heard it all before? Now I’ve made sure you won’t be going anywhere.”

  She spun on her heels and marched from the room.

  “Clara, wait! Come back. Let me go!”

  But there was no response, and Joe was left alone, naked, and chained to the bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The office was a buzz of frenzied activity. They still hadn’t managed to trace either Clara Reed or the man they knew as Joe, and Ryan was filled with the sense that time was running out.

  Ryan stood in DCI Hirst’s office, bringing her up to speed with the most recent developments in the case. He had the utmost respect for his DCI. She’d been around for almost thirty years and had seen a lot and dealt with a lot of different people over the years. She was calm and fair, and though they’d had their share of disagreements, they’d never got disrespectful with it.

  Several of his DCs had dug up information on Clara Reed, and they were starting to get a more rounded idea of who she was.

  “Clara Reed was taken into care when she was fifteen,” he told his DCI. “I believe her problems may have started then. From the amount of medication that was in her flat, I’d say that she is definitely battling some kind of mental illness, though without access to her confidential medical records, it’s impossible to say what.”

  Mandy Hirst nodded. “Okay, let’s get a data protection form submitted to other agencies, including social services, and kick-start a Shared Information Protocol. We should be able to find out what treatments she’s been on and who took her in when she was fifteen.”

  “She seems to go completely off the radar at nineteen—there’s no record of her on any electoral register or with the DVLA, or anything like that. The next time she appears, she’s twenty-six.”

  “Could she have been having treatment for her mental health?”

  “It’s certainly possible, though obviously we’ll know more about the circumstances once we get her medical information back.”

  Mandy checked her notes. “Nineteen?” she mused. “So that would have been around the same time Jacob Tater went missing and was later found dead?” She raised an eyebrow. “You think his murder might have triggered a breakdown?

  “It’s a possibility. We’d previously considered that the killer might have been out of the country, or had moved away because there aren’t any killings between that time, but what if she was simply too sick to hurt anyone? What if she was actually locked away?”

  “I find it hard to imagine that she was in a mental institute all that time.”

  “Well, she’s been off-grid somewhere.”

  “When did she finally appear on the electoral register?” Mandy asked.

  “About eighteen months ago. Enough time for her mental health to take a downward spiral and for her to kill two more men.”

  “But what’s her motive?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Maybe they hurt her in some way? Could she have been protecting herself and took it too far? Or she perceived them as being a threat, when perhaps they weren’t?”

  “Killed them before they could kill her, you mean? Maybe she didn’t know what was real?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m not sure a psychotic break fits her. Can a person have a psychotic break and still manage to function on a day-to-day basis? Up until now, the woman she volunteers with has said she’s pleasant and reliable, if a bit shy. Does that sound like someone having a breakdown?”

  She tapped her pen against her lips. “No, it doesn’t. But what’s the other option? That’s she’s murdering these men just because she can?”

  “That’s what we need to find out, but before we do, we need to find out where she is. We also still don’t know the identification of the man she might be with, and we have no idea if he’s been helping her kill people or if he’s the one in danger. Joe might not even be his real name. I spoke to some of the homeless community, and they think he showed up a couple of weeks back, but they don’t know where he came from.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “Better get to work then.”

  He took that as an indication to leave, and he stepped out of her office and shut the door behind him.

  Mallory caught his attention. “Boss, we got the footage from the street CCTV cameras near the bar. We got something. Look.”

  Ryan went over to her desk and peered over her shoulder at the grainy CCTV footage. It was dark, but the streetlights helped.

  “That’s Matthew Gordon,” she said, pointing at a couple who were walking down the street.

  “He’s with someone.” Ryan leaned closer. “A woman.”

  “A tall woman,” Mallory confirmed.

  “Clara Reed?”

  “I believe so.” She clicked to a different screen. “This is from a camera situated a couple of streets away.”

  The footage showed the same couple. They stopped beside a car—an old red Ford Focus—and the woman opened the driver’s door.

  “Did you run the plates?” Ryan asked.

  “Of course. One guess at who the car is registered to.”

  “Clara Reed?” he said right away.

  “You got it.”

  “Shit. So Clara Reed could well be responsible for the deaths of both Matthew Gordon and Luke Braun, which means that this ‘Joe’ might also be in danger.”

  Mallory raised both eyebrows. “If he isn’t already dead.”

  Ryan exhaled a slow breath. “We need to figure out where it is she’s taken him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Help! Somebody help me! I’m in here!”

  Joe screamed and banged on the headboard, clanking the metal cuffs against the bars. He bucked and thrashed, slamming his body back and forth. For a while there, he’d thought he’d lost it, fury and disbelief that this was happening to him taking over. His initial thoughts that this might be some kind of sick joke had quickly faded as the hours had passed. At some point, he must have nodded off, but had jerked awake, not remembering where he was.

  “Where the fuck are you, Clara? You bitch. You fucking bitch. Let me out of here.”

  He hadn’t done anything to deserve this. He had to keep reminding himself of th
at. Whatever she believed, if he’d have left, it hadn’t meant he was never coming back. He’d liked her—genuinely liked her. If she hadn’t turned out to be a complete psychopath, maybe something good could have come out of them meeting. The idea was a joke.

  Joe yelled until his throat burned, but it didn’t help. From the drive they’d taken down to this place, he’d already seen there was no one else around. He might have hoped for some ramblers to pass by close enough to hear him, but it looked as though there was a substantial amount of land surrounding the tiny house and the workshop, and he assumed it was fenced off, the same way the dirt track excuse for a driveway had been.

  The cuffs around his wrists had chaffed at his skin. He’d pulled on them so hard and so many times that the lower part of his hand was bruised and swollen, and pinpricks of blood had appeared.

  He needed to take a piss and had been holding on so long now that his bladder hurt. He was naked, so at least he didn’t need to worry about getting any of his clothes wet, but not having the use of his hands made the whole aiming part impossible. With no other choice, he wiggled over to the side of the bed as far as his cuffed arms would allow, jerked his hips out to the edge of the mattress, and just let go of his bladder. He’d been hoping he’d be able to urinate on the floor instead of the bed, but that didn’t happen, and he wet one half of the mattress, the stink of it acrid. He was dreading needing to take a shit and prayed he’d be released before that happened.

  He shouldn’t care about making a mess of her mattress. It was the least the bitch deserved. He’d burn this whole fucking place down if she ever set him free.

  He needed to think carefully. There must be a way out of this; he just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  Could he get the whole metal headboard off the bed? It would mean he’d have to somehow carry it with him, but if that’s what it took to make his escape, then he would. It must only be held on to the base of the bed via some screws.

  Where was Clara? She’d come back, wouldn’t she? He wished he could convince himself that she was playing some kind of crazy game, but he’d seen the look on her face when she’d screamed at him about him leaving her. That hadn’t been a game. He’d glimpsed madness in her eyes, and it had genuinely frightened him. He’d been in a lot of dangerous situations over the years, but this was the first time he’d ever truly been fearful for his life.

  Another thing troubled him. All the shouting had left his throat sore and his mouth dry. His thirst was becoming an all-consuming thing, and there was no water within arm’s reach, or even anywhere in the room. How long had it been since she’d first cuffed him to the bed? It was daylight outside the window and had been for some time. Had twenty-four hours passed since they’d arrived? No, maybe a little less than that. How much longer would he be here for before she came back? Did he even want her to come back? There was a part of him that hoped she’d stay the hell away from him, but the other part knew the only way he’d get free was if she undid the cuffs. At least if she was here, in the room with him, he could try to convince her to let him go.

  “Clara?” he called out, tentatively. “Are you out there?”

  He listened hard, straining his ears. It was warm in the cabin, too. The trees rustled around the eaves, offering a little shade from the sun, but there were no windows open to let in any air. He hadn’t heard the car start back up, so he assumed Clara was still around somewhere, unless she’d decided to walk out of here. Maybe she had—she was certainly crazy enough to attempt it.

  Crazy. How had he not seen that about her? He normally considered himself a good judge of character, but he’d failed spectacularly in this case. Had he been distracted by his obsession to find his sister, or was it simply that he’d recognised a loneliness in Clara that he’d held within himself for so long? He’d recognised something about the way she’d held herself, cowered over, as though she wanted to vanish from the world. But he’d caught her eye, and there had been that spark inside him, that unseen connection that joined two people. She volunteered to help those like him, and so automatically, he’d assumed she must be a good person. She’d offered him companionship and hadn’t judged him on his dirty, holey clothes, or that—to the best of his knowledge—he didn’t have any money or even a permanent address. It had made him think that he’d finally met someone who was an honest, genuine person.

  How wrong could he be?

  Joe wriggled up the metal bars of the headboard, using his grip on them to pull his back higher so he was sitting instead of lying. The position twisted his shoulders into uncomfortable angles, but he still preferred it to lying down. He felt too vulnerable flat on his back. Wrapping his fingers around the bars once more, he dragged himself higher still and managed to get to his knees. His mind whirred, trying to figure out if one position gave him an advantage over the other. If he was able to stand, could he use brute strength to yank the headboard upwards and wrench it from the divan base where it was attached?

  At this point, it was worth a shot. He’d dislocate both shoulders if it meant getting out of here. He wasn’t the most agile of people and he wished he had a little more flexibility.

  Joe held back a panicky snort of laughter. Had he realised he was going to end up handcuffed to a bed in the middle of nowhere, he may have partaken in a little more yoga.

  He managed to get one foot flat on the mattress, and then he pushed up, lifting his other knee to get that foot under him as well. His shoulders were wrenched back at the sudden movement, and the metal cuffs cut into his wrists, pain shooting up his arms and down through his hands. He yelled out then sucked air in over his teeth. Fuck, that had hurt, and he hadn’t even got started yet. His breath left his lungs in fast gasps, and he froze in position, giving his body a moment to recover. He was far from standing, more in a high-squatting position. Was this going to be enough to tear the headboard from its holdings? Considering the tears he was blinking from his eyes, he was starting to doubt his plan.

  Maybe Clara would come back? She might just be trying to teach him a lesson. He didn’t need to hurt himself to escape because she’d return and let him go.

  It was a sweet seduction, and one he wanted to listen to. But he’d been around long enough to know that things didn’t always end well just because you wanted them to. How long had he been here for now? It had been hours, and she still hadn’t come back. How long could he last without water? A few days, at most. Dying of thirst while being cuffed to this bed was going to be a drawn-out, painful way to go. Already, a headache had lodged itself behind his eyes and thumped in his temples. His mouth was dry and furry, his tongue gluing itself to the roof of his mouth and his lips sticking to his teeth.

  Was he the first person she’d done this to? Had there been other men she’d brought here and left to die in her bed? If so, what had she done with their bodies? A shudder went through him. He remembered catching sight of the front of a newspaper that pieces of two men’s bodies had been found in the River Avon. Could Clara have had anything to do with them? No, it was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? He couldn’t allow himself to believe that that would be his fate, too.

  The initial wave of pain subsided, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his jaw and muscles. He wrapped his fingers back around the bars and planted his feet into the most stable position he could. He counted himself down. One, two, three...

  Joe pulled. The muscles in his shoulders and biceps popped, and he gritted his teeth, growling out his exertion. Come on, you son of a bitch! He ignored the pain and focused solely on how the metal frame felt. Was there any give? Did it seem to be coming looser?

  Exhausted, he fell slack again, breathing hard. His muscles screamed, and he was forced to sit back down, allowing a little more movement. His shoulder froze in a cramp, and he threw back his head, his face scrunched into a ball of pain. He needed to stretch it out, but the limited range he had made that impossible. He had no choice but to wait it out.

  The cramp finally receded, and
he was able to breathe normally again. He yanked on the bars, giving them a shake. Did they feel different? He wanted to believe so, but was he just lying to himself?

  Maybe a change in direction would help loosen it. He swung his legs to one side. While he couldn’t get them fully to the floor, much of the lower part of his body was off the bed. But it did mean that the opposite arm was taking his entire body weight. Fuck, he wished this didn’t hurt so much.

  Dying will hurt worse.

  Yes, that was the truth of the matter. If he didn’t try this now, in twenty-four hours he would be even weaker and desperate for water, lying in his own piss and shit.

  Joe prepared himself to pull again.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ryan had spread the word that Clara Reed was now the main suspect in the murders of three men, and the possible abduction of a fourth.

  The likelihood they were looking for a female serial killer was a big deal. He updated DCI Hirst again, aware that this was an important case for her as well. She wanted to know developments as and when they happened.

  The moment he stepped out of his DCI’s office, DC Shonda Dawson rushed up to him.

  “I’ve found something.” She shoved some printouts under his nose. “Take a look at this.”

  Ryan glanced down at the paper, but before he’d had a chance to read it, Shonda carried on talking.

  “It’s a newspaper article about a missing man, Frank Reed. He leaves behind a daughter, Clara Reed, fifteen years old.” Her dark-brown eyes shone. “Her father went missing, thirteen years ago.”

  “So, we have her in connection with another missing man then.”

  The excitement didn’t leave her face. “Looks that way, but there’s something else.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Check out what her father did for a living.” She pointed at a line in the newspaper article.

  Frank Reed worked creating bespoke handcrafted wooden furniture from his workshop next to his house where he lived with his daughter in an off-grid family home in rural North-East Somerset.