“I thought you should know. Forensics came back with their report. A partial print from the grip of the gun is a close match for Avery Moss.”
Kelly let out a long, slow whistle.
“It might not be enough to hold up in court,” he went on, “but I’ve seen the pictures and they’re very similar.”
“She didn’t say a thing to me about handling the gun.” The irritation came through in Kelly’s voice.
“Not in her official statement, either. We’ll question her again after we visit the coroner’s office tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. See you there. Bye…”
Kelly looked out the window at the gray shadows outside. Cars were parked up and down the street; a passing truck made a soft sound as the tires rolled by on wet asphalt. She stepped over and turned the blinds shut.
The room was quiet. Kelly sat on the couch sipping her tea until she drifted into a restless sleep filled with familiar dreams.
11
The room had no windows, but he could have any view he pleased. Four oversized screens were mounted on the wall above the desk, and each was divided into six rectangles offering different views. At intervals of several seconds, the displays switched and new angles were seen: feeds from hacked security systems and his own well-placed hidden cameras. There was no place he would rather be than in this inner sanctum, sitting in his high-backed leather chair, keeping an eye on his domain.
He had always had a knack for wires and cameras, even as a little boy. He thought about the time he found his dad’s screwdriver sitting in a cupboard drawer, and while his mum watched her daily soaps in the living room, he took the microwave completely apart, laid out all the pieces neatly in rows on the countertop. He’d gotten a good thrashing for it, but when he put it all back together, it worked as good as new. Not a word of apology, or even an expression of pleasant surprise came his way, but from that day on he was hooked.
When he was ten, he mounted a small wireless camera to an electricity post in front of the modest home where his family lived on Plimsoll Road. After school some days, he would sit for hours, watching passersby, yearning to know their inner lives.
By the time he was fifteen, he was planting miniscule military-grade surveillance cameras in the girls’ locker rooms and making a pretty penny selling the photos to classmates. He never was caught. Not once. He’d learned his lesson that first morning with the microwave.
He’d found that people liked him, trusted him, even when the evidence said they shouldn’t. And he knew how to use this to his advantage.
The phone vibrated on the table in front of him, drawing his eyes away the monitors. “Yes?” he said, his voice low.
“This is not the way it was supposed to go!” the agitated tenor said at the other end.
He turned his phone on speaker and set it back on the table in front of him.
“Are you there?” the caller said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Things do not often go the way we would like.”
“She died.” The voice was angry, accusatory.
“She did,” he replied.
“What are we going to do now?” the caller asked.
He looked up at the screens. There was no activity. It had been a quiet night.
“Nothing,” he said. “We do nothing.”
“The police have been around, as you know. They’re talking to everyone.”
“I imagine they are.”
“And that butch detective from New York. She’ll get close to the best friend.”
“Don’t mind her. I know her weak spot, and I’m going to push the blade in deep.”
“I’m done,” the caller said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You have said that before. You know you’ll be back.”
“It’s too dangerous. I never thought it would end this way.” The caller’s voice dropped in volume, softened. “She was different.”
“I know you had a thing for her,” he said. “There are plenty more, though. You’re not in danger.”
“How do you know?” the caller asked. His voice took on an air of desperation.
“I have it under control. Stay out of the way—and you will be fine.”
“What about that moron Roane Davies?” the caller asked. “He knows the basics. He may even know who you are. So far, he hasn’t said anything to the police, but if they pressure him…”
“No one knows who I am. That kid hasn’t a clue. I told you already. I have it under control.”
“I need a break.”
“Okay, do what you need to. You know where to find me when you want to come back. When you need to come back.” He ended the call and switched on one of the screens. It showed a dim bedroom.
He thought about the caller. Easy to control, but still. If necessary, he could be removed.
“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath as a figure came into view on the monitor. The picture on the screen was clear and sharp and he recognized the intruder immediately. Roane Davies, walking out of Priscilla’s bedroom with her underwear in his hand. The police will find traces of this visit...
He switched to another screen and pulled up the living room. The sofa was there, bloodstained, abandoned. The kid walked through the living room, stopping for a minute in the middle, looking around. Then he was gone, back out the front door.
It made sense. He had a key.
And if the police did go after Roane? The fool might say something stupid. Give away the whole operation.
He hadn’t planned to kill anyone himself this time, thinking it was better not to get directly involved—to keep some distance. But he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. The chemical rush that urged him to action. Looking down, he sifted through the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a pile of photos, the greatest hits from his years-long archive. Video stills he’d snapped and printed for moments of inspiration like this one. Some from years ago: Cynthia Bishop, his teenage girlfriend in several states of undress; Johanna Clement, dead, naked on her bed. And a series of newer editions: Priscilla Ames, doe-eyed with her mouth around the gun. Roane, lying on the same couch weeks earlier, Priscilla and Jenny Hooks above him, their naked bodies entwined, kissing.
Yes, the kid’s sense of guilt, not wanting to spoil his future, would only keep him quiet for so long. He could be easily removed. It would be fun. A close, intimate kill.
Watch.
Wait.
Act.
And in the morning, the boy would be out of the way.
A feeling of excited anticipation swept through him. His eyes swept across the screens, taking in all the views at once. Tomorrow could not come quickly enough.
12
Roane Davies reclined the front seat of his car halfway back. He needed to be able to see the front door, and from that angle he could just manage it. In his coat pocket, his gloved hand fingered the lacy edges of the garment. He couldn’t resist holding it up to his face, taking in Priscilla’s scent which still lingered. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
It would probably be another couple of hours before the nosy copper left her flat, but he wasn’t afraid of falling asleep. His blood was running hot. Besides, if he needed them, he had pills that would do the trick. The glove compartment of the sleek BMW 550i was like a mobile pharmacy. He inhaled deeply and leaned his head against the backrest.
At that moment, the front door opened and a small figure stepped out. He sat up straight and tried to look closer. It was not yet dawn, and there was only a single streetlight further down the road. But he realized with a start that it was her. She was wearing running tights and trainers, and had a black hoodie pulled tight over her head. He slunk down lower in the seat and zipped his phone and his car key into his jacket pocket along with the lingerie.
13
Kelly had woken up early, groggy and disoriented, her head thick from jet lag and a lousy night’s sleep. Maybe that brandy was stronger than I’d guessed... Last night’s uneasiness about
the text message was still there, but she put it to the back of her mind. She had work to do. A pre-dawn run would do her good—get some endorphins surging through her body, clear her mind for thinking straight.
It had rained lightly while Kelly was sleeping, and now the wide sidewalks shone in the dim light. The street seemed to glow in the soft, early morning haze.
Moving her legs felt good. Kelly’s body rebelled against her when she didn’t exercise. As she began to run, her muscles loosened. The cool air was thick with moisture, and Kelly took a long, deep breath. She followed the street around a long bend and kept an even pace. She had only a vague idea of where she was or where she was going, but being in motion felt right.
She ran past storefronts, still shuttered from the previous night, without slowing. There was a dry cleaner, what looked to be a vintage consignment shop, Princess Nails. A Starbucks stretched out on a corner, but even that wasn’t open yet. She made a mental note to find it again on the way back and get a good high-octane boost of caffeine.
The buildings in the neighborhood appeared well kept. They were lined with flower boxes and fancy looking bicycles were chained to racks. Kelly assumed there must be apartments above the stores. The cars parked on the street were a mix of economy and luxury; most seemed so small to her, like toys, especially the little Smart cars.
A taxi drove slowly toward Kelly, throwing two beams of light on the sidewalk in front of her. She was reminded that, like “the city,” as all New Yorkers call it, London was a street-hail town and she could always get a black cab. She decided to keep alert, but let herself drift through the streets, unconcerned about where she might end up.
She took in the cool airy mist, letting her mind and body roam for several miles until she could see faint lights in the shape of a bridge arching over water further ahead. Too narrow to be the Thames. She veered in the direction of the waterfront, staying up on the street level above the old towpath of Regent’s Canal.
At an intersection with a large plaza and a shiny rehabbed apartment block, Kelly stopped running. She needed to get her bearings. She turned around to see where she was and noticed a dark sedan pulling to the side of the road, a block or two behind her. From that distance, she couldn’t make out any details. As she watched, the car pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and parked facing the opposite direction. The sequence of events—the car slowing down and then turning, stopping when Kelly stopped—would not normally have been enough for Kelly to suspect it had anything to do with her. Rather, it was the sense that she had honed over her years in the force—a sense that she had learned to trust when things didn’t seem right.
It could have been something random, that she was being tracked because she was a woman alone in the early morning, some pervert out for a thrill. Then, implausibly, her mind turned to Cass. She thought of her sister watching over her like a guardian angel, following her from afar, making sure no harm came to her.
But most likely it was because she was a cop investigating the death of Priscilla Ames. Whoever had texted her last night knew that she was in London, knew she was on the case, might know where she was staying, could be watching her.
She went through the cast of characters that she’d met in the short time since she’d arrived in London: Avery Moss, Professor Donaghue, Jenny Hooks, Roane Davies… Her suspicions about Roane’s involvement were growing. He had not seemed intelligent enough to Kelly when they had met to be capable of pulling off a murder, and then acting so cool. But it was possible. And his connection to both Priscilla Ames and Avery Moss was unique and complicated. What if he and Avery had worked together? A love triangle gone wrong? She believed it was possible that Davies could have a real motive. And Avery certainly seemed to know more than she was letting on.
The car turned off its headlights and receded into the shadows. Kelly looked up at the bridge before her. She began her shadowboxing routine; bobbing and weaving, imagining hitting another body with her full force.
She would change direction, head back to town instead of going farther along the canal. She fought her own instinct of wanting to isolate herself, draw whoever it was to her. It would do the case no good if she came to harm.
She felt her phone vibrate in the pocket against her ribcage. She stopped, thinking it was very early for a text. In a split second, she imagined it could be Dunne, or someone in New York. But as Kelly took the phone out of her bag, she knew. And when she saw the message on the screen, she was ready.
WATCH YOUR BACK IF YOU WANT TO FIND HER.
She turned around quickly and looked behind her, but nobody was there. Her heart was beating fast. She had also been jogging at a brisk pace. Kelly zipped her phone back in her pocket and started up again.
14
Roane got out of the car and closed the door behind him quietly. Moore had already moved out of his sight. He walked down the road in her wake and began a slow run, keeping her dark outline in his sights through the fog. Her pace was even and smooth, and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he trotted along in his Nike trainers, keeping up with her but staying close to the road’s edge so he would remain out of her sight. He had only spoken with her once, but it was clear she was the kind of girl who never missed a session at the gym. Her legs were fine and tight in her running gear. I’d grab a piece of that. He pictured her body, smooth and firm, under his weight.
He had briefly considered leaving, letting her go, but decided to seize the moment. This New York detective was poking around in ways the local police wouldn’t. He was afraid that she might get close to Avery, discover Priscilla’s secrets, and learn what Avery had done—what he had done.
Roane’s breathing became labored as he followed Kelly, struggling against his desire to overtake her. He had no idea how long they had been running but he was feeling it in his calves. This was not his usual exercise regimen. She took a meandering route through West London that led them to the road above Regent’s Canal; close enough to see the water and bridges through the fog.
Then she stopped in her tracks. Frantically looking for cover in case she turned around, Roane ducked behind a parked minivan. The detective slipped down a short flight of stairs toward the waterway and began to hop back and forth on the balls of her feet, ducking and dodging, throwing punches in the air.
He watched as she shook her head in annoyance and pulled her phone from her coat. He would have loved to have seen her face when she got his text message the night before, but the flat she was renting was on the third floor, hard to get a view through her window. He could have climbed along the balconies, but hadn’t want to risk being caught by a neighbor. The last thing he needed was to have the police after him.
Detective Moore slipped the phone back in her pocket and started running again along the bank of the canal, but more cautiously. The day was beginning to warm as the edges of the sky lightened ever so slightly.
When she looked back over her shoulder, Roane began to worry—even though he was far enough back. He was coming down from his adrenaline high. He’d done some crazy things since coming to drama school, and his imagination was running wild again. How hard would it be to make something unfortunate happen to her? At the very least to scare her back to America.
Then, just as fast as he’d considered it, he saw himself going back to the car, going home, and getting a little rest. Doing it on an impulse posed too much risk. He could rework the plan if he needed to.
He turned back in the opposite direction and walked along the canal. It was perfectly still in the pre-dawn fog at the water’s edge. He felt exhilarated, satisfied by the power he’d already had over her—stalking her while she felt strong and safe—and all the while, one move from him would have taken her down. He would sleep well tonight. The bed warm and soft, dreaming of his next plan.
He passed under a low stone arch that spanned the water. The shadow of the bridge engulfed him, and suddenly he felt a sharp pain that jerked him backwards. A hand gripped his hair tightly in
its fist. In the next moment, the world exploded in front of Roane’s eyes as his head hit the cobblestones and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and nose. The force of a knee on his spine sent spikes of pain through his entire being. He struggled frantically, unable to breathe. Was it her? Had she followed him, chased him down? Could she be this strong?
He struggled to take in air. Of course, this is the NYPD. Images flashed in his mind of things he’d seen in the news. Videos of US cops shooting unarmed men in the back, choking the victim until their body went limp. She’d never do that to him, she couldn’t. Those were always poor sods; black men at the mercy of a racist system. He sputtered and gasped, thought of his mother then, thought of his dog. This can’t be happening. He opened his eyes, gasping for breath. Little white dots danced around the shadows that he took to be the play of light on the water.
A smooth-gloved hand slid over his face and covered his mouth entirely while the thumb and forefinger pinched his nose tightly shut. There was no way a woman could do this, cop or no cop. Roane tried to bite down on the glove but he could already feel his body growing weaker. The knee kept up its pressure on his back and a burning sensation burst from his lungs to engulf his body. The world was growing dark and his insides felt like they were about to dissolve, when the shape of a face came into focus before him. His eyes widened in shock and recognition as his vision gave out and the unbearable pain ended. A feeling of pure euphoria swept over Roane Davies, and then he was still.
Moments later, the water made a dull sucking sound as Roane’s lifeless body rolled into the canal.
15
The sky grew brighter around Kelly as she ran, but the fog clung stubbornly to the streets. As she went back to town, a man dressed in a suit and overcoat walked by her and nodded.
This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel Page 5