This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel

by Claire Kittridge

  Inside, the flat was even darker than the stairway. Jenny walked in while Dunne and Kelly stood in the entryway getting their bearings. The fine hairs on the back of Kelly’s neck stood on end, and all of her senses were alert. She reached instinctively down to her hip for her gun before realizing that it was thousands of miles away. She began to make out vague shapes inside—a dark spot that might be a chair, a table, a heap in the corner that may or may not have been a bed—when the shrill noise of straining gears broke her focus and the space was flooded with a shockingly bright light that seemed to come from every direction.

  “Christ on a bike,” Dunne bit out.

  A loud cackling laugh came from Jenny as she finished turning the crank on the blackout shades, now completely raised to reveal a row of floor-to-ceiling picture windows to either side of a long studio. The concrete floor was painted a smooth, glaring white that reflected the light from the cool gray London afternoon in all directions at once.

  “It’s feast or famine in here when it comes to daylight.” Jenny smirked, enjoying the bemused looks on the detectives’ faces.

  Kelly took even breaths, ignoring the ache in her thigh muscles that returned once the adrenaline rush subsided. She looked at Jenny, then took in the details of the flat.

  A wide mattress lay on the floor in the corner, the covers pulled up squarely over the pillows. At the far end of the room was a tiny stove with a two-burner stove. A bottle of vodka and a box of granola sat on a small square table partnered with one chair.

  There were no other furnishings, except for a scaffold along the far wall from which a wide roll of photographer’s black backdrop hung down. A jumble of lights, wires, and cameras were strewn across the middle of the room.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Jenny said, gesturing grandly around the flat as she sat in the one chair, took a handful of granola from the box and poured herself a drink from the vodka bottle. Kelly felt a dryness in her mouth and a slight twinge at the back of her tongue.

  An old glossy black-and-white photo was tacked to the wall near the door, the only decoration that Kelly could see. A half-dressed woman posed for the camera with a look that went out of style years before Kelly was born. Her face bore a striking resemblance to Jenny, though her hair was bleached blonde and, judging by the yellowed surface of the print, it wasn’t a recent shot.

  “She’s quite a looker,” Kelly commented.

  “That’s Pam Green,” Jenny said casually. “London’s first top-shelf pinup girl. Glamour models are what they called them back then. That photo was shot in this very loft ’round sixty years ago. Pam and her husband ran a photo studio in here and put out a high-end girlie mag. Kamera it was called. Either of you two a cinema buff?”

  “Not really my line,” said Dunne, shuffling around the room looking at the film equipment.

  “Figures,” Jenny continued. “Well, she had a few roles in B-movie thrillers back in the 60s. The most popular one was about a nutjob who kills women with a dagger that springs right out of his movie camera. Pam Green played the first victim. I’m surprised Donaghue didn’t chew your ear off about those films. Sometimes it’s all he goes on about.” She tilted her head back and emptied her glass.

  “Tell us about your relationship with Priscilla Ames,” Dunne began.

  “How much detail do you want?” she said suggestively.

  Dunne ignored the innuendo. “Everything you can give us,” he said dryly.

  Jenny leaned over and took another handful of granola from the box.

  Kelly was thinking about what Roane Davies had said about Priscilla Ames and Jenny Hooks being more than friends. She could see how this place could have been a refuge for Priscilla—the romantic life of the artist, alternating between dark and light; a break from her father’s world of overstuffed Wall Street moguls and her socialite circles.

  “Priscilla and I had a unique friendship,” Jenny said. “I’ll always miss her, for sure.” Jenny’s words were sweet, but her face was empty of emotion, her eyes looked bored.

  “Were you and Priscilla Ames lovers?” Kelly asked plainly.

  “Yes,” Jenny answered.

  “For how long?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Dunno.”

  “A few months? A few weeks?” Kelly asked.

  Jenny glared at Kelly with steely eyes. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

  “Okay,” Dunne said. “When was the last time you saw Priscilla Ames?”

  “She stayed here on Thursday night,” Jenny answered.

  “Okay,” Dunne said again. “Did you have any contact with her on the evening of Saturday the fourth of April? Or anytime earlier on that day?”

  Jenny shrugged. “There were texts,” she said. “That morning. I’m sure you’ve seen her phone records. I didn’t see her that day. Or Friday. She told me that she was staying in Saturday night. I was home. I thought she might show up later. You never knew with Prissy. She’d tell me she was staying in loads of times, and then there would be a knock on my door.”

  “But you didn’t hear from her later Saturday night?” Dunne asked again.

  Jenny shook her head. “No.”

  “Had you gotten into any arguments with her lately?” Kelly asked. Jenny narrowed her steely blue eyes.

  “Listen,” Jenny said. “My sleeping with Priscilla had nothing to do with her being offed. She slept around, whatever. Everyone does at school. Nobody there would kill anyone because they’d slept together. Maybe because they weren’t sleeping with you, perhaps.” She laughed.

  “Do you think Priscilla had anything to hide?” Dunne asked.

  Jenny laughed again. “Dunno,” she said. “Unlikely. Priscilla was a sweet girl. Very sweet. I enjoyed her. Hiding something, though? She wasn’t that complicated.”

  Kelly watched Jenny. Her words were confident, but beneath that she seemed uneasy. Jenny arched her back, stretched, and rolled her neck.

  “What can you tell us about her state of mind? Avery Moss told me that Priscilla was missing classes and sleeping late. Did she seem depressed to you?”

  “Pris was exploring her true self. Breaking away from her boring old past. Depressed, nah.”

  “Were you shooting up with Priscilla?” Kelly asked bluntly.

  Jenny didn’t miss a beat. “If I were,” Jenny looked up at the detectives, “would I tell you?” She gave Kelly a cold stare.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm Priscilla Ames?” Dunne asked.

  Jenny took a large swig of her drink, then set the glass down hard on the table.

  “Listen,” she said, her tone harsh. “I told you I don’t know anything. Priscilla and I had fun together. That’s all. That’s what I know.”

  Dunne walked over to where Jenny sat at the table.

  “Right,” he said. “That’s all for now. Be prepared for follow-up, though. You may need to come into the station to make an official statement.”

  Dunne reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to Jenny. “Call if you think of anything that may be helpful in this investigation.”

  “Righto,” Jenny said and got up to open the door.

  Dunne and Kelly went back into the hall, walking down the five flights of stairs. The air outside was cool, refreshing. It was close to noon and the street was alive with tourists and office workers out for lunch.

  “What did you think of that?” Dunne said, his tone somewhere between a statement and a question.

  Before Kelly could say that she thought Jenny Hooks had a lot more questions to answer, Dunne’s cell phone rang. He listened intently to the speaker, making noises of assent, then quickly ended the call. He looked at Kelly.

  “Roane Davies’ body just washed up in Regent’s Canal.”

  18

  Tires screeched as Dunne’s car came to a halt near a curb by the waterfront. People standing near the crime scene and passersby turned their heads in the car’s direction, yet none of the uniforms took notice. Must b
e Dunne’s personal siren, Kelly thought as she climbed out. A quick ache shot up from her thighs to her lower spine; she held back a wince. Being bounced around in Dunne’s car was starting to take its toll.

  A white van was parked close by the scene, a pile of loose-fitting while coveralls and booties stacked neatly at the back.

  Kelly took in the scene as she slipped on protective gear. She recognized the place, though the atmosphere felt lighter without the solitude and clinging fog of early morning. She replayed the events of that day; the texts, the car, the feeling of being followed.

  Wide, paved towpaths stretched out around the area and disappeared under the thick shadows of the bridge. It was an attractive place for city people looking for outdoor activity.

  Kelly’s eyes scanned the crime scene as she followed Dunne down a set of stone stairs to the taped-off perimeter at the water’s edge. Martin Villiers carried a medical examiner’s bag over to the white forensics tent that some techs were just finishing setting up.

  The sight of Roane’s body as she rounded the corner was jarring. The corpse lay face down with his chest pressed into the thick mud and his head turned slightly to the left side. His skin was bloated and had a shiny purple pallor. A slash of dingy white peeked out through swollen eyelids and his blue lips seemed to be twice their normal size.

  “Did he drown?” DI Rodgers was leaning down next to Roane’s right side.

  “I can’t make an official statement yet,” Villiers said as he examined Roane’s head gingerly with a gloved hand. “There’s a blunt-force trauma here.” He pointed at a dark gash on the young man’s forehead. “There’s a significant cut here, and his nose is broken. From preliminary observation, I’d say the injuries happened before he went into the water. We’ll have to take a look at his lungs to determine if he died of his injuries or if he suffocated from drowning.”

  Dunne examined the area Villiers pointed to. The white hazmat suit stretched tightly over his dress shirt from his crouched position, revealing muscles that rippled over his back and shoulder as he pushed up to his feet. “What aren’t you certain?”

  “When people drown they take water into the lungs which then act as sponges so they sink quickly. They tend to not resurface for weeks or even months until the body fills with gasses from decomposing. If that had been the case here, the torso would be much more bloated; however, it’s also not unheard of for strong currents to wash up victims only hours after death if the conditions are right.”

  The body looked pretty bloated to Kelly, the hands were particularly bad. “Do you have an approximate time of death?”

  Villiers shook his head. “I’ll need to get him back to the lab and run some tests. I’ll also need a water sample and temperature reading, but unofficially, I’d say he hasn’t been in the water much more than six or eight hours.”

  “Hello, what do we have here?” Rodgers carefully reached into Roane’s pocket with a gloved hand and pulled out a pair of silky black panties. “Probably not his size.” He held them up as he pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and sealed them inside.

  Kelly studied the material in the bag. “They look a lot like the ones Priscilla was found in.”

  Rodgers nodded. “Don’t know ’bout these actor types, but I don’t hang onto my flings’ old knickers.”

  “Neither do I,” Dunne said. “Rodgers, make sure the techs get cracking on those samples.” He leaned over slightly looking down at Roane’s body. “What else has he got?”

  Rodgers nodded. “Already on it.” He felt around in Roane’s pockets again and shook his head. “Nothing else. No keys. No wallet.”

  “Anything found near the body?” Kelly looked out at the team of investigators as they searched the area. Three evidence markers stood out against the dark mud and wet cement. Kelly wanted to take a closer look at the numbered white cards, and Dunne and Rodgers followed close behind her.

  Kelly’s covered shoes slid slightly in the dark mud as they walked closer to the water’s edge.

  “A footprint,” she remarked, as she and Rodgers both bent down to look closer. There were a few cross-like marks at the toe and heel.

  Rodgers glanced back up at the body. “Doesn’t match our victim’s trainers.”

  “No, we’ll need a cast.” Dunne stepped over to the next marker. “Looks like hair.”

  It was easy to see that the hair was the exact same shade as the victim’s. “Roane’s,” Kelly said. Dunne looked at her sharply.

  Right. Not the lead investigator on this one, and not in New York any more. “We’ll need to verify that.”

  “The blood over there is probably his as well,” Dunne said as he looked back at the print in the mud. “What about the person who found the body, does the print belong to them?”

  Rodgers motioned toward a woman standing near the yellow tape that marked off the crime scene. “Let’s go find out.”

  The woman kept rubbing her arms as she talked to the uniformed officer. She had an unbuttoned bright purple, double-breasted coat that was draped around her shoulders and ended at about mid-thigh. Her rainbow-colored scarf was wrapped around her neck twice, and her blue jeans looked wet with some fresh mud on the side of the right leg. She must have fallen when she found the body, Kelly thought. Her shoes seemed small and appeared to be made for hiking or running.

  “Bloody hell. This—this is ju—just… It’s so awful. Why? Why did I ever come out to this crap place?” the woman stammered to the officer. “Did he fall in? Was he killed? Is there a serial killer runnin’ loose ’round town?”

  Dunne shook his head. “We aren’t sure of anything yet, madam.”

  “Should I stop takin’ walks in the afternoon? It’s just awful, now.”

  “We’re still investigating, but you might want to consider taking a new path,” Dunne said. “I’m DCI Dunne.”

  “Detective Kelly Moore from New York.”

  Rodgers smiled at the woman. “DI Rodgers.”

  Dunne looked down at the woman’s feet. “This might sound odd, but may I see the bottom of your shoes?”

  The woman looked from Dunne to Kelly and back again as her face registered a sense of horror. “You don’t think I stepped in… Evidence, do you?”

  That is a possibility, Kelly thought. People usually freaked out when they thought of blood and other bodily fluids they might have tracked through. “It’s just procedure,” Kelly said, as the woman braced a hand on the bridge and lifted one foot. “But we will need to take your shoes, just in case.” The pattern didn’t even come close to a match.

  “Take my shoes?” the woman cried. “What am I supposed to do, fly home?”

  “We’ll take care of getting you home, madam. Plenty of helpful constables around here at the moment.” Rodgers kept his voice soft as he addressed the shivering woman. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Kelly’s pocket vibrated as her phone went off. She took a few steps back and saw that the caller ID glowed with the station’s number. “Moore,” she answered.

  “Detective. Hi, it’s Sam… I mean, DI Joshi.”

  Kelly smiled. She hadn’t known the woman long, but she liked her already. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve had a look through Priscilla Ames’ laptop and found a couple things you and Dunne should see. I tried ringing the boss, but he didn’t pick up. Think you can relay the message?”

  Dunne and Rodgers were walking back toward Kelly. “You got it, Sam. See you in a bit.”

  Kelly faced the men as they approached. “That was DI Joshi. Says she found something on Priscilla’s computer. Wants to show us in person.”

  “You head back to the station, Moore. Rodgers and I will finish up here. We’ll regroup in an hour.”

  Kelly took the steps up to street level and saw a sign pointing toward King’s Cross. The tube would be faster than another run through the streets, no matter how good it might feel to stretch her legs.

  19

  In a small meeting room at the stat
ion, three piles of papers were arranged around the laptop in front of DI Joshi. She had a cup of steaming dark tea in her hand. Kelly breathed in the warm lemony smell.

  Joshi looked up from her phone.

  “My niece,” she said, showing Kelly the screen. A pretty little girl in a bright pink dress grinned in the photo.

  “She’s adorable,” Kelly said. “How old is she?”

  Kelly didn’t spend much time around kids, though when she did, they usually loved her. She wondered if it was because she didn’t see any reason to talk to them much differently from adults. Slightly kooky adults, of course, who have a vivid fantasy life. But she couldn’t stand baby talk, or the way that people would talk down to children in a way that assumed they couldn’t understand anything the tiniest bit complex. She also wanted no part in the day-to-day nuttiness of raising kids. As a result, children often attached themselves to her upon first meeting—the way that a cat will immediately sit on the lap of the person who, though they might love animals, is terribly allergic.

  “She’s four, thanks,” Joshi said. “Pretty much the best thing ever. Running around saying the craziest nonsense in a voice so high she sounds like a cartoon mouse.” She placed her phone on the desk and picked up a stack of the papers.

  “Here’s what I’ve got,” she went on, all business. “Shortly before Priscilla died, she was logged onto a private server with a temporary URL. This is a list of websites she visited over the months prior to her death. Her browser had not been cleared, her history, anything. It might indicate it wasn’t suicide, that she didn’t know she was going to die.”

  “Or she didn’t care enough to clear it, or know how,” Kelly argued.

  “Spot on. See these here? These indicate secure temporary sites that no longer exist.”

  “What are we talking—dark web?” Kelly asked.