This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel

by Claire Kittridge

  “Good morning,” Kelly said, but he had already passed by. Her voice sounded strange in the quiet.

  The street she had taken was on a different route from the way she’d come, but gradually the neighborhood began to look familiar. When she reached the Starbucks, though, it was still closed. She cursed under her breath. The streets were starting to become dotted with commuters and Kelly decided to go straight to the station. At least there would be coffee, even if she had to use a Styrofoam cup and powdered creamer.

  She felt a sense of relief when saw the Fulham Broadway station up ahead. She slowed to a walk.

  Sergeant Blevins sat at the front desk drinking a cup of coffee. Kelly was glad to see him; she was warming to the young desk cop’s dry but amiable attitude.

  “What up, JB?” Kelly said as she crossed the station lobby. The foggy morning at Regent’s Canal felt like a distant memory.

  Blevins made a face, looked up at the styrene drop-ceiling panels, and shrugged melodramatically. “What’s up? Not much, detective.” He smiled. “Casual dress today, I see.”

  Just as Kelly opened her mouth to answer, the door to the station swung open and a tall man in a long wool overcoat burst in. She had been expecting him, but not this early.

  “Moore!” he said.

  “Mr. Ames,” she said. She held out her hand, but he reached out his arms to hug her in a bear-like grip that she instantly remembered.

  “This time around,” he said, releasing her, “please call me Peter.”

  While Kelly felt invigorated from her run, full of energy, Ames looked beaten down. His usually ruddy face was pale, the skin around his eyes puffed and rimmed with red.

  She regarded him earnestly. “I’m so sorry about Priscilla.”

  Ames’ eyes were glassy, and his expression softened. “A shock. An unbelievable shock.” A tremor ran through his cheek. His face hardened, and he turned to the officer at the desk.

  “Peter Ames,” he said, extending his hand to Blevins.

  “Sergeant Jerzy Blevins. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Ames. Please accept the condolences of the London Metropolitan Police. We weren’t expecting you so early. I’ll check who’s in. You might want to get settled in to your hotel first and catch some sleep.”

  “Thank you,” Ames replied. “These days, I don’t sleep much.”

  “I was up entirely too early today, too,” Kelly said. “The time difference got me. I got a good run in, at least.”

  “That so?” Blevins said. “Where’d you go?”

  “Along Regent’s Canal,” Kelly said. “I needed to move. I thought it would help wake me up. And it did.”

  Blevins looked at her. “I used to walk every morning, but I must be getting old. I just don’t have the stamina I used to. Be careful down there though, early morning. Not the safest place for anyone, let alone a newcomer, to be wandering about alone.”

  “Ha!” Peter Ames laughed dryly. “Telling Detective Moore to stay away from danger is about as helpful as telling a bear to stay away from honey. It’s instinctual. A labor of love.”

  Kelly nodded, thinking about the text messages. She smiled at Blevins, ignoring Peter Ames’ teasing. She would need to investigate those texts today. “Thank you,” she said. “I understand.”

  “Can you give me an update?” Ames asked Kelly. “Is there a place to sit and have a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kelly said, hoping that Starbucks would finally be open.

  The front door opened again and Nigel Brickmat strode in, looking like he had stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. He wore neatly pressed jeans with a slim fitting trench coat and a perfectly knotted dark blue tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was glossy, his dark eyes bright. Unlike everyone else, he looked calm and rested.

  “’Morning,” Brickmat said. “Detective Moore. JB. And you must be Peter Ames.” Brickmat extended his hand to Ames, who shook it.

  “Good morning,” Ames said. “And you are…?”

  “Nigel Brickmat,” he replied, looking Ames directly in the eye. Both men were broad and strong and at least a head taller than Kelly, but Brickmat looked a good fifteen years younger.

  Ames’ eyes narrowed. “Nigel Brickmat,” he repeated.

  “Detective Moore,” Brickmat said. “I hear we have a match on prints. Avery Moss? I don’t think anyone will be surprised by that information.”

  “Wait—Nigel Brickmat,” Ames said. “Yes. You’re the one who wrote that disgusting news story. How dare you! Don’t you have any respect for my daughter? She’s dead. And… And Avery? Don’t you believe in the notion of innocent until proven guilty?”

  Brickmat straightened. “I do not report misinformation,” he said. “Everything I write is confirmed. I hold myself to the highest journalistic standards.”

  “Avery Moss is twenty years old,” Peter Ames said, his voice rising. “Twenty years old.”

  “Yes, and she was also dating Priscilla’s ex. Her fingerprints are on the gun. Those are facts, sir.”

  “Leave Avery out of it,” Ames said in a tone Kelly had never before heard. He turned to Kelly. “Is that true?” he asked. “There are fingerprints?”

  Kelly took a deep breath. “Why don’t we get that coffee and I’ll fill you in on what we know,” she said.

  Blevins stood. “Mr. Ames,” he said, “come inside with me. I’m sure you’re exhausted from the trans-Atlantic flight, but we have a few formalities to take care of. Detective Moore can meet us in a minute.”

  Kelly nodded gratefully. “Thank you,” she said to Blevins as he spirited Ames through an inner door.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kelly launched out at Brickmat. “He’s just lost his daughter. Leave the man alone. Why are you even here?”

  Brickmat looked at her, his dark eyes lively.

  “I’m here because I’m a good reporter. The best. I needed to see Peter Ames in person.”

  “How did you even know he would be here?” she demanded.

  Brickmat cocked his head to the side and regarded her sardonically.

  She shook her head. “Lay off him, buddy.”

  “Lovely to see you, Detective Moore, as always,” Brickmat said. He smiled with a disarmingly genuine warmth before turning to leave. Kelly watched him leave the station, then went in search of Peter Ames and her long-awaited coffee.

  16

  The coffee shop was finally open and Tuesday morning was in full swing by the time Kelly and Peter Ames got there. Kelly had managed to sneak a quick shower in the basement locker room at the station and change into an extra set of clothes she had stashed under her desk in the incident room. She had learned early on in her career that it was always a good idea to be prepared with a fresh set of professional gear and exercise clothes.

  A good workout, the cool shower, and now the familiar taste of strong American coffee cleared her mind and put her in a healthy mood, despite the circumstances.

  She updated Ames, leaving out the details of his daughter’s relationship with Jenny—and Kelly’s growing suspicion that Brickmat had an inside track with the local police. Ames looked weary, caught between the shock over the loss of his daughter and the horrible notion that Avery might possibly be her murderer. Kelly spoke to the man gently, although she still, before leaving, cautioned Ames to let the police do their job without interference. She then went to meet DCI Dunne to take a ride with him to the morgue.

  “A little different than what you’re used to?” Dunne asked, as he parked the patrol car up on the curb in front of the Coroner’s Court.

  “No,” Kelly responded. She’d been called to the London morgue twice before, to identify bodies that turned out not to be Cass. Someone else’s tragedies, much to her relief. The morgues in New York were barren and dismal, but this building was the opposite. Lantern skylights topped twin gabled roofs. Palladian windows with thick casing flanked a cherry-red main door. There was not a single sign to indicate the building’s use. Rather, there was an ornat
e wooden crest on the side of the building, which was surrounded by trees and red tulips.

  Even though Dunne held the door open for her, she waited until he walked through, then followed him in. Just inside was an impeccably groomed man, with glowing skin and a paisley bowtie. He was pouring himself a cup of tea that smelled sweetly of milk and bergamot.

  “Right on time for the matinee, Jack,” he said, glancing at Dunne, then at Kelly.

  Kelly leaned in to shake his hand. “Detective Kelly Moore,” she said.

  “Martin Villiers,” he said.

  “Detective Moore is here from New York to assist with the Priscilla Ames investigation,” Dunne volunteered.

  Kelly let him direct the conversation. Let him feel secure in his rank. She figured he must be just a few years older than her, with experience and rank that was comparable to her own.

  “Peachy,” Villiers deadpanned. “I assume the detective isn’t mute.”

  “Not one bit,” Kelly said. She noticed the medical examiner’s teeth were perfect, his white shirt starched.

  “Right,” Villiers quipped, leading them to a metal door.

  The three suited up in blue medical scrubs. Kelly felt the papery material crinkling against the skin of her arms. They walked down a short hallway that opened into a large, cool, hexagonal room. The skylights above flooded the space with natural light, and their muffled footsteps echoed faintly off the hard, stone-tiled walls. The mortuary felt peaceful, almost church-like. Priscilla Ames was laid out on a metal table in the center of the room. A bright white sheet covered the length of her body up to her collar bone. A dark hole bloomed close to her right ear.

  “You can see the entry point above the right temple,” Villiers said, pointing to the small opening. “Exit wound back here.” He turned the dead girl’s head with a precise yet delicate motion of his hand. “Death was most probably instantaneous, as the shot penetrated both hemispheres of the brain, though rapid blood loss would have ended any involuntary body functions soon after.

  “She was shot at very close range, as shown by the halo of gunpowder directly around the entry wound. The trajectory of the bullet was slightly downwards, and towards the back of the head. Unusual in a suicide, but not unheard of. We also need to consider recoil.”

  “Right,” Dunne said. “Can’t imagine Priscilla Ames would have had much experience shooting a revolver.”

  Villiers nodded. “Still, it did the trick. In my time in A&E, I only saw one case of a victim surviving a bullet to the brain.”

  “According to forensics, there weren’t any bullets left in the cylinder,” Dunne said. “And no sign of any other shots being fired in the room.”

  “Russian roulette,” Kelly explained. “Though if it were murder, the evidence points to the killer being a person she knew. No forced entry and no struggle. It’s unconventional, but one bullet is all it would take.”

  Kelly looked down at the corpse. Priscilla Ames’ features were elegant, even in death; her strong cheekbones and full lips were both delicate and strong. Her hair was long and blonde and tucked behind her shoulders on the table.

  Kelly leaned in close to the girl’s pristine face. Gunshot wounds could look very different depending on the distance from the weapon, the caliber of the gun. Priscilla Ames’ wound was probably the cleanest that Kelly had ever seen. That side of Priscilla’s head was placid, her hair smooth and neat.

  “Any evidence of sexual assault?” Dunne asked.

  Villiers shook his head. “No. But tissue swelling shows that she was sexually active in the hours before she died. No obvious traces of semen, so we’re running tests to see if anyone else’s DNA is present. A bruise on her thigh is very recent, but that could easily be accidental. Common place for injury. Here, though—on her wrists—there are bruises, and they’re harder to date.”

  Villiers pulled the sheet down and folded it neatly at her feet, exposing the brutal Y-shaped seam where the coroner had cut and sewn meticulously up the center of Priscilla’s otherwise unblemished chest. Kelly studied the bruise on Priscilla’s thigh and the marks around her wrists. The girl had been slight, her bones tiny. It would not take a very strong person to restrain her, especially if she was incapacitated in any way.

  “Toxins?” she asked.

  “Her blood alcohol content was very low. Maybe she’d had a glass of wine or two. And there were also small traces of opioids in her blood.”

  “She was high?”

  “Don’t think so. But her left arm shows signs of recent injection. My guess, a recreational user, not addict.”

  Villiers pulled the sheet back over Priscilla’s body, up to cover her face this time. Kelly felt an unexpected flood of emotion. The person under the sheet could have been anyone; it could have been Cass.

  When they were little, their mother would make Cass eat peanut butter sandwiches between meals to try to make her put on weight. Cass—small and strong and smart. And gone, somewhere. Kelly looked away.

  She followed the men out of the viewing chamber and down the hall, where they threw away their scrubs.

  The desk in Villiers’ office at the rear of the building looked out onto a serene courtyard through a massive arched window. The day outside was bright and cool. Several framed prints hung around the room: sepia-toned photographs of men outside, wearing cricket whites and holding bats.

  “I’m a bit of a cricket nut,” Villiers said, seeing Kelly examining the photographs. “Not much of a player, though. More of an amateur. My great-grandfather, however, was legendary. He’s right there.” He pointed to a photo of a young man holding a bat.

  Kelly nodded at the print, thinking it didn’t look so different from the sandlot baseball that her uncles used to play when she was a kid in Brooklyn.

  Dunne cleared his throat and began to shuffle through the file he had pulled from his briefcase.

  Villiers snapped out of his reverie. He picked up a large envelope from his desk, and opening it, he passed a stack of prints to Dunne. “Photos of the scene from forensics and my official postmortem report. Inconclusive as to whether the wound was self-inflicted. Too close to call.”

  Dunne spread out a few pictures on the desk. Priscilla Ames had died on her couch, her body splayed out against a white ruffled throw. Kelly took note of Priscilla’s clothes: black, lacy lingerie. Blood pooled over the cushions to her left side. The scene was surreal, the sexiness of the garments and Priscilla’s youthful beauty making the picture resemble a high-fashion photo shoot from a 1990s glossy magazine.

  “An erotic game gone wrong?” Kelly said, thinking out loud.

  “That’s for you to sort out,” Villiers replied.

  Dunne pulled a close-up of the gun from the stack of photos, examining it. The wood grip was worn smooth, and the finish on the cylinder and barrel was a polished silvery blue.

  “Vintage,” Dunne said.

  “Yup. Smith and Wesson,” Kelly said as she picked up the picture. “I’d say from the late 50s. An early sheriff’s model, Thirty-Eight Special. A cop’s gun, and a pretty one at that.”

  “You Yanks and your guns…” Dunne said.

  Kelly thought of her own S&W 5906 sleeping quietly in a locked box back in Queens. “Mm-hmm,” she hummed absently. “Five hundred bucks on eBay will get you one of those lovelies. Any idea where she got it?”

  “Not yet, but Joshi’s checking into her digital trail,” Dunne answered. “There’s been a rash of people buying guns online and getting them shipped in separate parts through the post.”

  Villiers stood watching with his arms folded as the two discussed the case. The look on his face told Kelly that they’d overstayed their welcome.

  “Let’s go ask Avery Moss why her fingerprints are on the gun,” Dunne said.

  Kelly turned to him. “Avery isn’t going anywhere. Let’s go visit Jenny Hooks.”

  17

  Kelly looked out the passenger-side window at the low buildings flying past against the gray London sky. Her h
and was wrapped around the little handle bolted to the roof as casually as she could manage. They were on their way toward Gerrard Street in Chinatown and Dunne was careening across the cobblestoned mini roundabout at Seven Dials.

  “You miss the week they taught the difference between the brake and the clutch at driver’s ed?” she asked.

  Dunne glanced sideways without saying a word. But Kelly caught the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. She eased her grip on the strap and let out a short laugh.

  They parked the cruiser up on a pavement and walked around the corner past a restaurant window filled with roasted ducks dripping fat and soy sauce. Kelly’s stomach grumbled. She thought of her favorite Chinese bakery back in New York as they crossed in front of baskets full of fresh ginger root and crisp leafy greens. She’d loved Chinatown from the first moment she stepped out of the New York subway and joined the teeming crowds on the streets littered with crab shells and crushed coffee cups. She was just a kid back then, cutting school with Cass to buy clove cigarettes and hang around the kung fu supply store, where they would talk about Bruce Lee movies with the smartly dressed old men that ran the place. The pangs in her stomach moved from hunger to sadness.

  She was snapped back to the present by the sound of an extraordinarily loud and jarring buzzer.

  Dunne rang it again. Through the small square window on the door, Kelly saw a figure coming down a flight of stairs. The door opened and the young woman they had seen at the school talking with the prop master stood inside. Her black-and-blue hair was pinned back off her forehead, revealing a face that was both tough and exceptionally pretty. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes matched the color in her hair.

  “I figured you’d show up sooner or later. Might as well come up.”

  Jenny turned and led them up the dim staircase with a light step.

  They walked up five flights of stairs to the very top, before reaching Jenny’s flat. Despite her regular training, Kelly felt a dull pain in her legs, still stiff from the hours of sitting on the plane and her early morning run to the police station. Jenny fumbled with the door lock, jiggling the key until she could push the door open.