Dark Game: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked! (Detective Kelly Porter Book 1)

by Rachel Lynch

  She’d created a bundle of leads from not very much at all, and in only a day. She knew to seize momentum when it came, because this time next week it might be gone. She was looking forward to the rest of her week with something she hadn’t felt for a long time: passion.

  Kelly saw investigations as giant jigsaw puzzles. Both things required patience, memory, order and time, all of which she possessed. Matt the twat had taught her well; she wasn’t so proud that she couldn’t admit that. He’d taught her about the golden hour, and about how to stay impartial, as much as one could. He’d taught her how to create balance in an inquiry and never to let anything go uncovered. The tiniest nugget of information could break a case wide open. A shoeprint, a shard of glass, a fag end, a type of mud; they could all decode a case, but equally they could all get forgotten. Most of all, he had taught her to be thorough. Working with him had been exhilarating. Which was why, when he didn’t stick up for her, she felt so betrayed. But her anger was subsiding, and now when she thought of him, her blood didn’t boil. Her thoughts turned instead to Johnny, and she wondered if she might see him again.

  As Tinie Tempah got her to the top of the hill, Kelly remembered the Coryn Boulder case: her last in London.

  It had tested them all. Coryn was a pretty student at the London School of Economics, but to raise money, she also worked as a hooker. One night things apparently went a bit too far and she was strangled and dumped in a waste bin behind Tesco in Whitechapel. It took them a year to find the killer, and in the end it hadn’t been a client. It was the boyfriend who’d originally reported her missing; he’d found out about her extracurricular activities and killed her in a fit of rage.

  The problem for Kelly was that somewhere along the way, a young suspect had jumped off the top of a building, and she was the last person he’d spoken to. Matt told her DCI, then the story got out and the press ran with the whole ugly question of police rough-handling. Morale dipped and Kelly kicked Matt out of her bed. During their blazing rows about why he hadn’t fought her corner, all he could come up with was that he hadn’t known what to say when asked about the incident. That was bullshit.

  It emerged later that the boy had jumped off the roof because he was being mercilessly bullied at college – a fact that only emerged after his death. In fact during Kelly’s last conversation with him, she had assured him that he was no longer a suspect. But none of that mattered. She’d made the unit look bad and someone needed to be held accountable. Matt made DCI a month later for solving the case, after she’d spent hundreds of hours chasing leads, trawling data, harassing labs and driving round the M25.

  She didn’t have to leave, but she’d lost her hunger. Now, though, it was back.

  As she planned the coming days in her head and listed all the things she had to do, her music was interrupted by an incoming call. It was a duty sergeant from HQ.

  ‘Yes, that’s my case,’ she confirmed. ‘What’s happened?’

  She was floored. Some jumped-up journalist had written an exclusive in the Manchester Evening Star claiming that the mother of baby Dale, still seriously ill in the Penrith and Lakes Hospital, was a Serb-Croat refugee. The story had made national TV and the Home Secretary was pushing for answers. There had clearly been a leak inside the hospital and someone’s head would roll, but Kelly doubted it would be anyone senior; it would be some poor sod who actually needed a job. She was livid that some journo could access her witness before she could.

  She was at the top of Beacon Hill now and she looked west to the mountains as she listened to the sergeant. After she’d hung up, she googled the article and read it quickly. She was getting cold and she’d have to get moving again soon. The journalist, Carl Bradley, quoted an ‘inside source’ and that meant one thing: a nurse. No one else had been given access to the woman. It wouldn’t take much to find out who’d been on shift the last couple of days, and exactly who had access to the room.

  She made a call and spoke to a night clerk at the Manchester Evening Star, who searched for Carl Bradley’s private number but couldn’t find it. Funny, that. Then she called DI Lockwood. It was a long shot. He was probably putting his gorgeous kids to bed or having dinner with his perfect wife.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lockwood, it’s Kelly Porter, we met today.’

  ‘I remember. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’m after a favour. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  ‘No, not at all, I’m watching my son play football and they’re getting thrashed, so please distract me.’

  ‘How old is your son?’

  ‘Fifteen going on twenty. Thinks he knows it all like they all do at that age.’

  Kelly figured she herself had been a bit younger when she knew it all.

  ‘When you worked for Greater Manchester, who was your media contact? I need to get hold of a reporter for the Manchester Evening Star and it’s pretty urgent.’

  Lockwood thought and came up with a couple of names for her to try. He couldn’t guarantee they’d still be in post, but he remembered their extension numbers at the paper.

  ‘Thank you, I owe you one,’ she said.

  ‘Two, actually, I think I’ve found Wade Maddox,’ he said.

  ‘Really? Nice job. Tomorrow is looking tricky – someone has thrown a spanner into a live case – so this might have to wait a while, but I’ll try and make it by Friday.’

  ‘I’ll go and rattle his cage for you in the meantime. What do you want to know?’

  ‘That’ll be three I owe you then. I want to know his relationship with Dennis Hill and whether he knows anything about the Lottie Davis case, I’ll send you an email. I hope your son’s team picks up.’

  ‘No chance. Goodnight, Porter.’

  Her run back down the hill was unyielding and she pounded the ground furiously. It was time to pay the hospital a visit.

  Chapter 17

  Gabriela slept fitfully but felt refreshed after a shower. Mrs Joliffe had offered her one hundred pounds in cash per night shift. She’d been told to wear her usual black skirt and white blouse but she’d also been given twenty-five pounds to buy a pair of nice black heels. She wanted to look as smart as she could and so she blow-dried her hair and put on a little make-up. She might have made a mistake, but there was no going back now if she was to have any chance of retrieving her passport.

  There was no sign of her roommates. She wasn’t sure if they still had their keys. She thought about mentioning her unease to Mrs Joliffe, but a feeling in her gut told her to wait. She checked her appearance again and left the room, locking the door behind her.

  The hotel was quiet and Gabriela was unaccustomed to it. There was no bar, so if guests wanted a drink they had to go elsewhere. Ambleside was full of great places, though Gabriela herself didn’t go out much – not because she didn’t want to, but because she wanted to save her money. She tried to reassure herself that Anushka and Roza were probably in one of those bars right now, dancing and drinking, but a knot formed in her stomach and she knew it wasn’t true.

  Mrs Joliffe was already waiting for her in reception, looking smarter than normal. She was tall and always dressed in black, and to Gabriela she seemed glamorous. She wore a lot of expensive-looking jewellery and came across more like a sophisticated businesswoman than simply a hotel manager. Gabriela felt out of her depth. She wondered how many other passports Mrs Joliffe kept in her safe.

  ‘Good evening, Gabriela. You look very nice, well done. Let’s get started, shall we?’

  Gabriela nodded and followed her employer into the office behind the reception area. Mrs Joliffe also had a private office, which was always locked. They started with housekeeping. Gabriela would be the only member of staff on duty from the hours of ten p.m. through till five a.m., so she needed to know where everything was. She also needed to know emergency procedures and what to do in certain situations. She was learning a lot.

  Then Mrs Joliffe showed her the night manager’s log. It was separate from th
e usual register, and Gabriela was impressed by Mrs Joliffe’s organisation. There was a long list of names inside, and Mrs Joliffe explained that the vast majority of her evening guests were business clients, coming back after long meetings and leaving before breakfast. It made sense, because Gabriela recognised no names from the breakfast list.

  ‘This is where the money is, Gabriela. I’ve built a reputation amongst certain companies from London and Manchester, and Scotland too, for providing simple comfort and uncomplicated service. These clients like to be left in peace.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Joliffe.’ She was proud that she’d been given this responsibility; she wouldn’t let her boss down. Perhaps holding her passport was just a precaution on Mrs Joliffe’s part, with no other intent apart from protecting her business.

  ‘Good. Now your job is to make sure that their every comfort is taken care of. After a long day guests may request extra bubble bath, or a snack, or perhaps clean sheets or towels. I know I shouldn’t, but I have on occasion nipped out to get the odd bottle of champagne. They tip well, Gabriela.’

  Gabriela took in all the information. These were important clients; she was slightly nervous but determined to get it right.

  The reception bell rang. Gabriela followed Mrs Joliffe and watched as she greeted a man in a suit.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fellows, how lovely to see you. May I introduce our new night manager? Gabriela, this is Mr Fellows, he comes to us once or twice a month.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Fellows,’ said Gabriela. The man extended his hand and she took it. His smile was broad and he nodded to Mrs Joliffe. Gabriela thought he looked pretty chirpy after a long day of meetings, but maybe he was just happy to be relaxing for the evening.

  Mrs Joliffe handed him a key, then turned to Gabriela. ‘I’ll stay for a while in case you have any questions, though I’m sure everything will go smoothly. I’ll pay you weekly, but I’ll give you an advance of two nights now so you can treat yourself.’ She went to the cash drawer and counted out two hundred pounds, her gold bracelets jangling together. Gabriela was astounded but took the money gratefully.

  Mrs Joliffe was still with her at midnight, by which time three more men had checked in. Gabriela had also noticed a couple of girls walking through reception, and had looked at Mrs Joliffe to see her reaction. When a third girl arrived without approaching the desk, she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  ‘Do I stop guests I don’t recognise, Mrs Joliffe? I’m sure I haven’t seen her before. She might be lost or she might be a thief.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Gabriela, I’m sure you can spot someone with bad intentions. I know that girl. Some of the guests like to have friends over from time to time; it helps them relax.’ Mrs Joliffe smiled and crossed her arms, looking at Gabriela mischievously. It was a test, she realised. And Mrs Joliffe had her passport.

  ‘Right. I understand,’ she said. Her pulse quickened and she clasped her hands behind her back.

  ‘Good. Like I said, my evening clients have been coming here for a long time. They are trusted and loyal, and they pay very good money. Discretion is everything, Gabriela. Any problems, you call me direct, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Joliffe.’ Gabriela knew that the chances of getting her passport back any time soon were very poor. ‘Mrs Joliffe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who had this job before me?’

  ‘Ah, just a young girl like yourself, looking for work and willing to put in the hours. She left. It didn’t suit her. And if it doesn’t suit you, you can just leave too.’

  Gabriela wasn’t sure she entirely believed that, but she willed herself to calm down. There was nothing wrong with men renting hotel rooms to entertain female partners, though something told her that these were business arrangements rather than romantic ones. Was this where Anushka and Roza had earned their money? she wondered.

  Mrs Joliffe left at twelve thirty, and by five a.m. Gabriela had counted seven men and six girls entering the guest house, all of whom had now left. She put the night ledger away in the safe, at the same time checking to see if her passport was there, but the only other item was an envelope containing a bundle of cash; another test from her employer, she suspected.

  George, the day manager, arrived shortly after five and greeted her. They’d got to know one another quite well, and he had a soft spot for her.

  ‘What are you doing here so early?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m the new night manager,’ she replied.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Just be careful, Gabriela.’

  She was exhausted and didn’t push him for an explanation.

  Back in her room, she undressed and fell onto her bed. She could shower later; now she needed to sleep. The evening had passed without incident and the guests had all been quiet and polite. There’d been no drama or anything that concerned her. Her apprehension had been for nothing.

  Chapter 18

  Kelly had been at her desk for less than five minutes when a call came from HQ. A new case had come in; did she want it? She was on a roll with her other cases, but this new one sounded interesting and would take her back to Ambleside. She was also very bad at saying no.

  She opened the email. The video tape taken from the crime scene was being sent over this morning, as well as various papers and ledgers from the hotel office. The two uniforms who’d been first on the scene – PCs Martin and Coombs – had done an excellent job. The notes were very detailed. She read their report and noted with interest that they questioned the integrity of both the manager and the cleaner who’d found the body.

  When she opened the autopsy report, the coroner’s name struck her. Ted Wallis had autopsied Lottie Davis five years earlier. Of course: this was Cumbria, there was one chief coroner and he’d perform all important post-mortems. The deceased in this case, Colin Day, had been a prominent civic figure in the area. Kelly had never heard of him, but there were photos of him with his wife at various fund-raisers. She googled him and he came up as the owner of six tanning salons and several hotels, including the one he’d died in. Looking at the notes, neither the manager nor the cleaner had bothered to mention this fact.

  It could be a high-profile case, and the baby Dale case was looking the same. She was allowing herself to be vulnerable by juggling three big investigations, and she wondered whether she should have taken on this latest one. The wobble of confidence shook her and she chastised herself. Of course she was up for it. Her eagerness was coming back and she wasn’t about to get wound up over a fear of what might happen.

  Apparently the old guy had died in the middle of intercourse with a young woman in his own hotel. It wasn’t the first time a hotel owner had been serviced by his staff, and it wouldn’t be the last, but there was something odd about this case in that the woman hadn’t hung around. Of course she would have been scared, but she hadn’t reported the incident, which could mean she had something to hide.

  A uniform entered Kelly’s office and handed her an envelope: it contained the recording from the hotel room, on a USB. Phillips and Hide came in behind her and put four boxes of papers on the floor next to her desk.

  ‘From the hotel office, guv,’ said Hide.

  Kelly nodded. The PCs had noted that the hotel had no guests, and hadn’t for a while, and so she wanted to look through the books.

  ‘I’ll need some help going through this lot after I’ve seen the tape, then I’ll hold a preliminary meeting in the incident room,’ she said.

  She inserted the USB into her computer and pressed run. The quality of the film was good but the room was dark. She wondered if Mr Day had recorded the meeting because he would get off on it later, or because he was worried about something and this was his insurance. She focused on the screen and watched as he walked away from the camera and sat on a chair. After a short while, he got up, apparently to go to the door, and a woman walked in. Mr Day gave her something, and Kelly could make out enough to see that she was pleased. She embraced him, then he walked to his jacket slu
ng over a chair and took a roll of cash out of the pocket. He counted out several notes and gave them to the woman, who put them into her handbag. Then he reclined on the bed and the woman undressed. The colours merged into a dark brown mass at this point and it was impossible to see her face, though her hair looked to be a shade of red and possibly a wig.

  Kelly took notes as she watched the recording, pausing often to scribble and circle questions that came to her, rewinding and fast-forwarding where necessary.

  Seven minutes in, the woman was down to knickers and a bra and was playing with feathers. She removed Mr Day’s clothes, then got on top of him, his hands all over her. She let him play with her and arched her back a lot; she looked like a pro, Kelly thought. This meeting wasn’t one between two lovers. Yet it was clear that they knew each other, an easy familiarity between them. This wasn’t their first time, she decided. It all set off warning bells.

  She paused the recording again so she could take in more details. The woman was younger than she’d first thought – not much more than a girl. She noticed that there were little blue pills on the bedside table; she guessed Viagra. The young woman’s handbag was large and not expensive; her coat was long – a dark-coloured mac perhaps. She looked at Mr Day’s jacket on the easy chair, the pocket from which he’d pulled the cash still bulging: there was a lot of money in there, she thought. But with no paying guests in a hotel with large overheads, how rich did one need to be not to care?

  She checked her notes and scanned the inventory of what forensics had found in the room when they arrived: cash wasn’t listed. There was also a laptop on the table, and when Kelly checked the list again, that hadn’t been recovered either.