This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel

by Claire Kittridge

  Jenny sat in silence, without expression. Kelly noticed there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked up at Kelly, her lip curled ever so slightly, then she faced Dunne and said calmly, “I’ve got nothing to hide. From you,” she looked Kelly up and down, “or anyone.”

  “Fantastic.” Kelly couldn’t keep the irritation from seeping into her voice. A very long day had just become longer. She was about to continue, when Dunne interjected in a honeyed tone. “Tell us about your relationship with Priscilla Ames. When did you first meet her?”

  “Must have been about three months ago. Start of the winter term. I could tell from the start that she was someone I wanted to get to know.”

  “And were you intimate from the start?”

  “You’re asking if we had sex? Yes, we had a thing.”

  “For how long?” Dunne asked.

  Jenny smiled slowly. “Hours at a time. Sometimes all day.”

  “Brilliant. But, how long ago did you start sleeping together?”

  “Don’t know,” Jenny replied. “Six weeks? Eight?”

  “How often did you see her?”

  “She stayed over a couple of evenings a week. Not every night. There were times when she would drop by in the afternoon, if we’d finished with classes early, but then she usually slept at home. Or else she would come over late, close to midnight. She tried to be home on the nights Avery was home and Roane wasn’t there, so she could catch up with her, you know, over dinner, or they’d watch a movie.”

  “Did anyone besides Avery know about your relationship with Priscilla Ames?”

  “Probably everyone,” Jenny responded. “Nothing stays quiet at school. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Anyway, it wasn’t a secret. Priscilla didn’t mind who knew. And I didn’t care.” She shrugged.

  “What can you tell us about Priscilla and Avery?” Kelly asked. Jenny continued to look directly at Dunne while she answered Kelly.

  “I didn’t see the two of them together much,” Jenny said. “I only had one class with Avery. Most of what I know is from Pris. They’d been friends since they were little. I know that Pris’s father gave Avery money. Her parents were out of the picture—dead or something. Priscilla’s father was footing the bill for their apartment, and their other expenses.”

  “So, she didn’t need any extra cash?”

  Jenny tilted her head to one side. “She always had enough money. What was driving her crazy was her father constantly comparing her to Avery. She didn’t think he saw her for who she was, how she was different. She and Avery were like sisters, you know. But even though Pris was his real daughter, it always seemed to her like Avery was his favorite. If you ask, she was a wee bit conniving, Avery. Always looking for a way to look better than Pris, always trying to show her up.”

  “Jealous?” The word came out of Kelly’s mouth before she could stop it.

  Jenny gave a sideways look. “Me? You’ve got to be joking. Now, Avery was another matter. Her being jealous of Pris—that’s a no-brainer.”

  Kelly’s was about to lay into Jenny, but Dunne changed tack. “We heard you’re working on a script of your own. A play, or is it a film?”

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “A film.” She shifted in her seat toward Dunne and sat up straighter. “I guess you could say it’s quite dark.”

  Dunne leaned toward her. “Where’d you get the gun, Jenny?” The question caught Jenny off guard. Her eyes widened momentarily—so quickly that Kelly almost missed it.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective,” Jenny said casually.

  “That’s Detective Chief Inspector, Ms. Hooks. And I think you understand me quite well.”

  Kelly watched intently as a slight tremor shook Jenny’s body.

  “What are the officers who are searching your flat right now going to find, Jenny?” Dunne continued in the same low tone.

  A panicked look swept across Jenny’s face, then she quickly regained her composure. “Am I under arrest?” Jenny asked flatly.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “In that case, officers. I’ll be going now.” She stood up, although her eyes were locked with Dunne’s.

  “You can sit back down, Jenny. We’re keeping you here tonight.”

  “Then I want a solicitor.”

  “You’ll get one. But, first, where did you get the gun that killed Priscilla Ames?”

  Jenny’s expression darkened. “I’ve got nothing to hide, you bastard. I’m done talking. If that’s all you’ve got, you can lock me in a fucking cell.”

  “Of course.” Dunne stood up. “I’ll send in an officer.”

  He caught Kelly’s eye and the two left the room, leaving Jenny Hooks behind.

  29

  Kelly was bone-weary when she reached the top of the stairs to her apartment. Could it really be only her second night in London? They were getting nowhere. Jenny Hooks had clammed up, and the search of her apartment yielded only a collection of vintage porn and several liters of top-shelf vodka—neither of which were illegal, certainly not grounds to hold her any longer. Her duty solicitor refused to let her answer any more questions. It looked like Jenny would walk and they weren’t any closer to figuring out Priscilla or Roane’s deaths.

  Kelly took out her key, staring at the lock. Her mind was so foggy from exhaustion that she couldn’t work out which way to insert the key. She scratched it against the door, trying to make it fit.

  With a sudden swooshing sound, the door was ripped open. Kelly jumped back into the hallway, her senses now completely alert.

  “Can I help you?” a voice said.

  The middle-aged man standing calmly in the doorway was several inches taller than Kelly. His hair was a smooth silvery gray, and his high forehead sat above cat-like green eyes that peered at her over a pair of half-moon reading glasses. His nose was pointed and his cheeks puffed out slightly, like a squirrel hoarding acorns. He wore a red velvet robe tied neatly at the waist, over a white Oxford shirt and dark slacks. He was holding a folded copy of the London Review of Books.

  Over the man’s shoulder, Kelly glimpsed a dimly lit room with walls covered in artwork from the floor to ceiling: paintings in gold frames, black-and-white photographs, African masks, tapestry rugs.

  She was at the wrong door.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kelly said. She now realized that, exhausted, she’d walked up one too many flights of stairs. “I’ve got the wrong apartment.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” the man said. “Are you staying at Margaret’s?”

  “Er—yes! I was so caught up in my thoughts that I’m on the wrong floor.”

  “Oh, I know how that is. With the world the way it is these days… I’m Stephen Oldman. Pleased to meet you. If you need anything, feel free to come up. But knocking might be more effective than trying to break in,” he joked.

  Kelly apologized again, then walked back down to her own place. Once safely inside, she took off her jacket, dumping her things on the sofa. Home sweet home.

  She barely managed to take off her shoes before lying down on the bed with her clothes still on. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  In the next room, her phone buzzed in two sharp bursts, but Kelly didn’t hear.

  30

  Gray morning light filled the bedroom by the time Kelly opened her eyes. Her muscles ached, and for a few seconds she had absolutely no idea where she was. As the fog lifted from her mind, everything came back to her. She felt even more strongly that Avery was telling the truth, and that unless they did something, there was a killer out there who was going to get away while Avery took the fall.

  Kelly washed her face and changed into a clean shirt, picturing Priscilla before the camera with the gun Jenny Hooks supplied.

  She felt out of place, out of time. What time was it, anyway? She found her phone and picked it up; the screen was black. The external charger she had been using was also depleted, and Kelly realized she didn’t have an adapter. Damn it.
She threw the phone and charger in her bag. She’d take care of it at the station.

  At Fulham Broadway, Kelly went straight to the incident room, but it was empty apart from a young constable who was on the phone talking to a neighbor of Roane’s. She went upstairs, following the corridor past the warren of small rooms occupied by senior detectives, to Dunne’s office. Inside, it was empty, a half-drunk cup of coffee abandoned by the keyboard. Next to the monitor was the photo of the little boy Kelly had seen the last time she was there. Now she noticed a framed snapshot of a pretty woman, probably in her mid-thirties, whose straight brown hair fell to her shoulders. In the photo, the woman smiled unselfconsciously. Maybe DCI Dunne is married, after all.

  “Any good clues in here, Detective Moore?”

  Dunne’s voice jolted Kelly from her thoughts, but she didn’t miss a beat.

  “Not really,” she said. “That your family?”

  “It is. Zachary there turned eight a few weeks back.”

  “And your wife?”

  ‘“Allison’s been gone for about six years now.” Dunne’s face took on the sadness that Kelly had seen in flashes during the previous days. Now she understood.

  “I’m sorry,” Kelly said. “How did it happen?”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time. She was going to the local shop. A man pushed her inside, held a knife to her throat, and demanded money from the till. The owner handed it over but he still stabbed her before running out. She died of a punctured lung before the ambulance arrived.”

  Kelly felt a wave of compassion for Dunne, who’d lost his wife and, she presumed, raised their son alone.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Was the killer caught?”

  “Yes.” Dunne was looking at the photo of Allison. “Our lads picked him up a few hours later. By then, he was wearing nothing but a pair of pink shorts and had threatened three other people. Bastard was off his head on coke and had drunk a bottle of vodka on top of that. He’s been sent off to Belmarsh on a life sentence.”

  Dunne shook his head and his expression hardened again. “But that’s not why we’re here. Have you seen the report on Avery’s clothes?”

  “No.”

  “The DNA matches Priscilla Ames’ blood, bone, and brain tissue. The hairs on the shirt are Avery’s.”

  “No surprises there.”

  “No, but this might be. I was just upstairs in the superintendent’s office. We’re preparing the charges against Avery for Priscilla’s murder, and the Crown Prosecution Service is advising on whether she should be charged with Roane Davies’ killing.”

  “Could’ve seen that coming, too,” Kelly said.

  “But here’s the kicker,” Dunne went on, “as a result, you’re off the case.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I wish I were. Frame says that since the Ames investigation is over, our collaboration is finished. I couldn’t talk her out of it.”

  “Over? Our investigation isn’t even close to being done. There’s no way that Avery killed Roane Davies, and we still don’t know where Priscilla got the gun There might be video of what happened to Priscilla out there somewhere on the web, and now Frame’s kicking me off the case? I didn’t come all this way to be swept aside by some high-toned, corrupt administrator. I’m going to see her right now.”

  “Too late,” Dunne said. “She’s out. There’s going to be a press conference in an hour at New Scotland Yard. The media is having a feeding frenzy, and the Super is going to try and calm things down.”

  Kelly realized that there was nothing she could do, at least for now. She’d have to leave, find a way to release her frustration. She could think of only one thing.

  31

  Warm leather molded around Kelly’s tightly taped fist as metal chains clinked together. The heavy bag swung ominously as she bounced back on her left foot, then launched forward to the ball of her right foot. Her left fist connected to the bag with a thump. Sweat gathered at the back of her sports bra until it soaked through to her black racerback tank top. Kelly grunted as she ducked down then threw another punch, slamming her frustration into the bag.

  She panted as she glanced over at her phone resting on the wood floor by a wall socket. The screen glowed for a second before going back into rest mode. She had picked up a UK adaptor on her way to the gym, and it was finally getting some juice. Kelly unlaced her right glove with her teeth as she walked to the phone. Peter Ames had left a voice message while she was working out.

  “Just got off the phone with that bitch Frame. Moore, this isn’t over. I don’t care what they say; I know Avery, and I believe her. If Miss wrap-this-up-as-fast-as-possible kicked you off the case, you must believe Avery, too. Keep at it; look into those sites my daughter was on. I’ll back you up. I don’t care how much it costs me, do whatever it takes to find the bastard responsible for my little girl’s death and save my other girl’s life.”

  Ames had a point. If what Dunne said was true, then Frame was always a put-the-right-perp-away kind of superintendent, so why the sudden change? Why would she want this case wrapped up fast rather than solved right? Kicking Kelly off the case hinted at Frame knowing more than she was telling.

  Kelly put her phone down and went back to the heavy bag. Her form was controlled and her punches were fierce, as she went over the case in her mind: It was clear Jenny had gotten the gun for Priscilla, and Kelly did believe Avery’s story. The relationship between Jenny and Avery was shaky, at best, but more likely hostile. Avery was not only competition to her in school, but also in affection from Priscilla. Roane wasn’t a real friend to Jenny, either, but what didn’t fit was the webcam porn. Jenny was a woman of action, not a bystander. But directing the action from behind the scenes would fit. Jenny could have been running the show, and didn’t trust Roane to keep his mouth shut.

  Kelly needed to get her hands on information about the porn operations. Whatever was happening there was crucial for putting together the darkest parts of this puzzle. Kelly pulled her arm across her chest and stretched out her lateral muscles.

  More questions than answers filled her head, but she liked the feeling of exercising her mind and body together. Kelly took a swig of water, sat on the floor, and grabbed her phone. Email notifications lined the screen from the night before. Kelly froze when she scrolled to the green text message icon on her notifications list. The number was blocked: LET IT DROP OR YOU’LL NEVER SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

  If Kelly hadn’t just finished her cool-down, she would be back at the bag, punching it into the barber’s next door. Whoever the sender was, it wasn’t some punk trying to scare her. It was someone who knew more about her than they should.

  Kelly hit Samantha Joshi’s desk number at the station; the phone rang once before the familiar voice picked up. “This is Joshi.”

  “Hi Sam, did you get the info on my mystery texter?” Kelly wasn’t going to hide from this scumbag.

  “Kelly,” Joshi’s voice lowered. “Yeah, one second.” The sound of papers shifting filled her ear. “The first message came from Roane Davies’ phone from outside your flat. He must’ve sent the message, then waited around ’til morning and followed you. The second one was from a pay-as-you-go number. I tracked the SIM card down to a shop out near Gatwick, but it was paid for in cash. Untraceable. The message came from a spot on the canal, not far from where Roane’s body was found.”

  “I got another one last night,” Kelly said. “But I just picked it up now.”

  “Jeez. Give me a second and I’ll check the trace I’ve got on your phone.” Kelly could hear the clicking of a keyboard. “Same location and number as the second message.”

  “Can you send me the closest address? I’m going to go check it out.” She could hear Dunne yelling in the background. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll pick you up and we’ll go together,” Joshi said, ignoring her question.

  Kelly liked Joshi. “If you come with me you could get yourself in deep shit.”

&n
bsp; “Nah, I’m a big girl. They won’t even notice I’m gone. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”

  Kelly realized that she wouldn’t win the argument, so she gave her the name of the gym in Wandsworth and hung up.

  32

  The two detectives stood on a dark street corner near Regent’s Canal. Joshi checked her phone.

  “We need to go that way,” Joshi said, pointing toward the water. There were several long, winding side streets off the main road. Kelly could see buildings down each of the streets, mostly low structures with thick bones. The signs of a healthy spirit of gentrification were everywhere: young couples with babies strapped to their chests, joggers in expensive running shoes, and shiny, glass-fronted buildings that until recently had been dilapidated Victorian warehouses surrounded by razor wire.

  Kelly recognized the difference in character of the area from her prior visits. The homogenized makeover of the neighborhood was unsettling. “I’ve got to admit; this part of the canal looks like every other waterfront I’ve seen lately. In which direction is the spot where Roane’s body was discovered?” Kelly asked.

  Joshi pointed eastward to where the canal snaked around a bend. Behind her was the city that Kelly was getting to know. She remembered when she had first gone down to the piers along the river on the west side of Manhattan. It was long past the dilapidated heyday of the gay-cruising 70s, but there were still some overlooked spots where you could believe that the straight world didn’t exist.

  Joshi looked at the map on her smartphone. “If we head down that street, then across and over two, we should be very close to the source of the texts.”

  They walked along the former towpath in silence until they came to a sprawling Victorian brick building surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence. The building in front of them was three stories tall. It was imposing and hugged the bank for an impressive stretch along a curve in the canal. Across the water was a park. A thickly wooded patch that gave the spot a feeling of being detached in time and space. From the look of it, the building had been a warehouse. Kelly recognized the form from old buildings that had sat empty for years along the Brooklyn waterfront which she and Cass used to sneak into and smoke clove cigarettes when they were kids.