Kill Chase (Ryan Chase 1) - SIGNED Paperback

“Catch!”

The beer can flew towards Evan Fraser. He managed to snatch it from the air
before it hit the ground where it would have most likely rolled into the river.
He was pleased he caught it—his reflexes weren’t what they used to be.

Evan glanced at his watch. “Bit early, isn’t
it?”

It was barely nine-thirty, and Evan and his friend,
Paul Merchant, had only just arrived at Conham River Park to settle in for a long
day’s fishing.

Paul cracked open his beer and took a long
gulp. “Never too early when you’ve got a whole day without the kids or missus.
Got to make the most of it.”

They’d found a good spot, but this part of
the River Avon was tidal, and they’d have to shift their position during the
day to prevent their feet getting wet. A low-lying mist had been hanging over
the river first thing, but the day promised to be another hot one and the
rapidly warming sun was already burning it off.

Evan cast his line, the nylon whistling
through the air. There was a barely noticeable flick on the water as the hook
and sinker hit the surface and vanished beneath, leaving the float on top.

The river was moving at a brisk pace. The
only sound was the gurgle of the water, the light breeze rustling the leaves of
the trees surrounding them, and the tweet of birdsong. It was hard to believe
Bristol city centre was only a twenty-minute drive away. It felt like they were
in a whole other county.

Sod it.

Evan opened the can, took a swig, and settled
back in his fold-out chair. He balanced his beer on the swell of his belly. His
wife had been complaining about the extra weight he’d put on lately, but she
wasn’t exactly skinny either. Besides, they were both in their early fifties
now, and surely allowed to let themselves go a bit.

He’d probably be asleep within the hour, but
it wouldn’t do any harm to rest his eyes for a bit, face upturned to the warm
summer sun. He doubted he’d miss much. There was always the thrill of a catch
to look forward to, but between catches were long periods of not much else.
Just how he liked it.

“Avon means ‘river’, you know,” Paul said.
“So, the River Avon is actually called River River.”

“Fascinating,” Evan deadpanned.

Paul shrugged. “I thought it was.”

Evan’s float dipped below the surface then
popped back up again. He sat up straight and frowned. It went back under and
this time didn’t come back up. His line tightened.

“Think you’ve got something there, mate.”
Paul nodded at Evan’s line.

Evan got to his feet. “Something big, too.”

Eight-pound pike swam in this river, and even
bigger carp. Would be a lucky day for him if he caught one within minutes of
casting his line.

He got to his feet and removed his rod from
its stand. He let the line out and then reeled it back in, expecting to feel
that familiar tug of a fish on the end, ready for the battle of giving a little,
before drawing it closer to the bank. But something was wrong.

He frowned. “Bollocks. That’s not a fish. The
line’s caught on something.”

“A rock?” Paul suggested.

But whatever the hook was caught on gave a smidgen,
allowing him to pull it closer.

He shook his head. “No, don’t think so. Feels
like the weight of a fish, but without the movement.” He jerked his head at the
large round net beside him. “Grab that for me, will you?”

His friend did as he’d asked and picked up
the net, standing with one foot at the edge of the riverbank, the other behind
him, bracing to scoop up whatever it was on the end of Evan’s line.

The faded orange of a supermarket carrier bag
broke the surface of the water.

Evan let out a groan of disappointment.

“Some bugger has chucked his rubbish in the
river, and I’ve been the lucky one to catch it.”

The bag was attached to his hook, so he had
no choice but to keep reeling it in. It wasn’t as though he’d just let it sink
back into the river, anyway. He wasn’t into polluting the same river he spent
so much time beside. He was a conscientious man, and not one of these morons
who thought it was okay to spend the day with nature and leave all their crap
behind. People like that really got his goat. How were they supposed to enjoy
the countryside when idiots couldn’t even be bothered to clean up after themselves?

Paul clearly felt the same way, voicing Evan’s
thoughts. “What dickhead thought it was a good idea to throw their litter in
the water?”

“Probably kids. Couldn’t be bothered to take
it home.”

The bag was almost at the edge of the bank now.
Evan didn’t know what was in it, but he assumed it must be empty bottles of
booze or something. From the weight, he figured they must have filled up with
river water.

Paul got ready with the net and reached
forwards. He ducked the net under the water and lifted the bag out of the
river.

The stench hit Evan like a punch to the face,
rocking his head back. “Jesus Christ.”

He covered his nose with his forearm and
coughed, trying to expel the rotten air from his lungs. It smelled like roadkill
on a hot summer’s day, a stink that would follow a person right down the street.

Paul dropped the net and took a step back,
his face screwed up in disgust. “What the fuck is that?”

“No idea, but that’s got to be the worst
thing I’ve ever smelled.” With a sinking sensation, Evan realised their
chilled-out day fishing had just been ruined. They couldn’t toss the bag back
into the water, and there was no chance they could have it anywhere near them.
There weren’t any bins around here where they could throw the bag away, so
they’d have to carry it back to the carpark and put it in one of their cars. He
didn’t even want to put it in his wheelie bin at home. It would stink the
garden out.

“What the hell do we do with it now?” Evan
said.

Paul grimaced and shot him a look. “Should we
see what’s inside it?”

“Do we have to?”

“Maybe someone won a meat raffle at the pub
and decided on the way home they didn’t want it.”

Yes, that was what it smelled like—rotten
meat.

Evan had an idea, but he didn’t like it. “Do
you think someone might have been trying to get rid of an unwanted litter?”

Paul pulled another face. “Jesus. You think
it’s puppies or kittens, or something?”

“No idea. But it might be.”

“Then I definitely don’t need to see.”

Evan agreed with him, but still he felt
compelled to check. If some bastard was drowning puppies, they should report it
to the RSPCA. He was also hoping that a call to the charity might mean they’d
take the bag out of their hands, so it would become someone else’s problem.

He turned his face and sucked in a lungful of
air, then, holding it in his lungs, stepped towards the bag. It was still on
the side of the riverbank, cradled by his net. He needed to work quickly, not
wanting to risk having to suck in another breath while he was standing right
over it. He plucked at the plastic, trying to pull it open. Already, his lungs
burned. The plastic felt different, as though its time underwater had changed
the composition, making it crunchier, somehow. He gave it a tug, and the bag unrolled,
leaving the top open for him to see inside. With his other arm covering his
mouth and nose, he crouched to look.

It took him a moment for his brain to piece
together what his eyes were seeing. Fat, pale sausages curled into claws. No,
those couldn’t be sausages. Sausages didn’t have nails on the ends—nails that
now appeared loosened from the nailbed and close to dropping off.

Oh God. It was a hand. The palm led to a
bloated wrist and then a forearm, where it ended abruptly.

Whoever the arm belonged to was no longer on
the end of it.