This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel

by Claire Kittridge

  “Hey, Jack.” Rodgers was standing at Dunne’s side. “I thought you might be interested in this.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Got a call from the doc at the mortuary yesterday, said he remembered a body similar to Priscilla Ames and he thought we might want to check it out. Her name was Johanna Clement. It didn’t ring any bells, so I went back in and had a look at the files. Turns out it was buried deep in the archive. In fact, there’s not much information in the file at all.”

  Rodgers handed a few sheets of paper to Dunne. “Here’s the printout. Mostly the medical examiner’s report ruling it a suicide and some photos taken by the Crime Scene Investigation unit.” Dunne flipped the page and turned the pile sideways: on top was a photo of Johanna Clement; a white woman with blonde hair in her late twenties. She lay dead, unclothed, on her bed. There was a hole in the right side of her head, a large bloodstain beneath her, and a gun—of similar vintage and model to the one used by Priscilla Ames—at her side.

  Dunne sifted through the papers and stopped at the last page. It listed the property taken in as evidence: some clothing, the gun, a phone, and a laptop. “It’s a long shot, but maybe she was involved in the same racket as Priscilla Ames. See if you can track down the laptop and get it to Joshi. There’s a catalogue number here on the list. I’ll take it upstairs and see if the Super knows anything about it.”

  “I’ll see if it’s in the station. Otherwise it’ll be in deep storage.”

  Dunne logged out of his computer, grabbed the Clement file, and took the stairs two at a time to Superintendent Frame’s office. The door was ajar, so Dunne knocked as he pushed the door gently open and walked into the room.

  Frame looked up from her desk.

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “Quick question, ma’am,” Dunne said. “Do you remember a case, several years back, a suicide by gun. Woman named Johanna Clement?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “There were some superficial similarities to the Ames incident, but it was ruled a suicide so there wasn’t a full investigation.” He handed her the file pages. “I saw that you signed off on it. Just thought I’d see if anything had struck you as odd.”

  Frame shook her head slightly. “Sorry, Jack.”

  “Right. Not worth following up on, then,” Dunne said, turning briskly. He left the room, closing the door on his way out.

  43

  Mandy Stone had worked for Bainbridge Estate Agents for exactly three months, showing condos and flats across North London. Most of her time was spent chasing the kind of calls junior agents get stuck with, doing admin, and answering phones. Then at last, at last, Bill had seen fit to send her out to show the old Langhedge warehouses. Approved for manufacturing and industrial use, an hour outside of central London, it was being marketed to artists—her idea. It was perfect as rehearsal space: no one around for miles to hear your band practice. Great for sculptors or a large-scale painter. There was no other way to sell it.

  If she could make this deal, she could get the hell out of this business, and live the dream. One good commission and she could leave the grayness behind. A vision of blue sky and white beaches rose up before her. She could do this. I could just leave London; leave Jeremy, and his stupid mates from the pub. One good sale, and Mandy could be in Spain, sipping rosé in the sun.

  She pulled her little white Volkswagen into the drab concrete lot and turned the engine off. Flipping the mirror down, she ran a brush through her hair and refreshed her lipstick. A minute later, the clients pulled in in their deep blue Tesla sedan—hippies with money.

  The man, long-haired and red-eyed, had a large silver ring with a ram’s head on his index finger that probably cost as much as her parents’ house. The woman was wearing the kind of glasses that were meant to tell you she had personality.

  Mandy gave them her biggest smile.

  “I’m so excited to show you this unique space,” she said. “For fifty years, this property was used to manufacture dummies for infants. Now it’s ready to help you pursue your creative vision.”

  “It’s dead amazing,” the man said. “Enormous.”

  The woman looked around like she was taking in a pristine vista in the Alps. She said, “You can feel the creative force of love here.” She had long hair, and the sleeves of her peasant blouse were cuffed with embroidered trees and birds, like she was an elf from The Lord of the Rings.

  Mandy nodded approvingly.

  “Please,” she said, leading them toward the entrance of the loading bay.

  Mandy reached down and pulled up the metal shutter, flooding the dark space with the hazy light of the foggy day.

  The man took two steps in and stopped, shrieked, and fainted. Mandy squinted into the cavernous space at something that at first looked like an oil spill and a pile of rags.

  No, it was a mannequin.

  No. It was a body.

  44

  It was mid-morning when Kelly arrived at the station. She was still off the case, and though Peter Ames was working the back channels to get her reinstated, the idea had been met with resistance on both sides of the Atlantic. With all of the forensic evidence against Avery, Chief Delancey would just as soon have Kelly back in New York. Here in London, Superintendent Frame seemed more than eager to wrap up the case as quickly as possible and have Kelly out of the way. Ames would have to go over both of their heads if Kelly had any hope of being an official part of the investigation. She had been in London for one full week, but the case was far from closed.

  “Detective Moore!” Blevins practically jumped out of his chair as Kelly walked through the entrance to the station.

  So much for a quiet entry.

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you here today.” The surprise in his tone was evident. “I heard you were on your way back to the States.”

  “Not just yet, JB. I left a few things in the incident room. Thought I’d stop by and pick them up.”

  “I see how it is,” Blevins said with a dry chuckle. “Not going to let a little smoke in your lungs get in the way of snooping around the station. Well, I’m sure it can’t hurt. Go on then. Joshi and Rodgers should be about. I’ll buzz you in.”

  “Thanks, JB,” Kelly said, going around the desk. “I owe you one.”

  “Watch what you promise, detective. You never know when I might take you up on it.”

  Kelly walked into the empty incident room and stepped up to the whiteboard. Dunne’s notes looked like her thoughts had been made visible: all the names were familiar, the question marks in all the same places, the images of the victims that Kelly couldn’t erase from her memory. Even Superintendent Frame’s name was written there, though as a reminder to ask for more resources, not as a person of interest. Kelly saw the name Johanna Clement written at the edge of the board. Villiers must have gotten through to Dunne.

  “This doesn’t look like bedrest to me.” The voice coming from the doorway was warm and familiar. Kelly turned to face Joshi. “You’re supposed to be resting, luv,” she said.

  “I’d be resting six feet under if it weren’t for you, Sam.” Kelly’s voice was strong, but she could feel her eyes getting watery. “And I didn’t even get a chance to thank you. You were amazing out there.”

  “It’s a good thing that I’ve been hot-wiring golf carts since I was fourteen,” Joshi said, stepping into the room and putting her hand on Kelly’s shoulder. “But really, if the Super finds you here, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “There’s too much at stake,” Kelly said. “The longer this goes on, the more likely it is that we won’t be able to find out what really happened.”

  “True,” Joshi said. “And I’m glad you’re here. I’m looking for Dunne, because I finally got a lead from my pal in Oxshott.”

  “Did you find out who was watching Priscilla when she died?”

  “Not exactly, but we’re one step closer.”

  Joshi sat down at the table and opened her laptop. “The tech was abl
e to find the trail of the site Priscilla was on the night she died. There’s no video, since it was streaming live, but we do have the chat she had with her customer—definitely a paying customer—including his screen name.”

  Kelly looked over Joshi’s shoulder. In plain text, white letters on a black screen, there were a few lines exchanged between two users. She cringed at the ridiculous language, each one using the kinds of phrases you’d find in a cheap romance novel. But she took note of the screen names: MissPris99 and MrkLewis60.

  It was Priscilla, alright. Even without a photo. It was clear. And now they had something to investigate. It was small, sure, but it was something.

  “Is there any way to find out who registered the screen names? To track their IP address, their location?” Kelly asked.

  “No. This is all we’ve got. It’s a miracle that we’ve even got this.”

  “MrkLewis60… It could be almost anything. Mr. K. Lewis, Mark Lewis, Millicent K. Lewis. And even if we can crack that open, it’s bound to be a pseudonym.”

  “Yeah, it’s a long shot. But I’ll dig deep, see what I can turn up. The choice of avatar will give us a clue. And, there’s something else.” Joshi pulled up another screen, full of code and seemingly random characters that were indecipherable to Kelly. “Buried deep in here is something that could be big. At the time that Priscilla Ames died, there was a third user logged in to her channel. A site admin with the screen name Graham Dalton.”

  Kelly stood up from the table. “That’s our man. If we can figure that one out, we’ll know who was running the business. The person with the most to lose if too much information got out.”

  As Kelly was finishing her sentence, Rodgers walked in.

  “Looking a lot better than the last time I saw you,” he said.

  “You think?”

  “Actually, tubes and wires coming out of your face is a good look. I hear it’s trendy in Paris this year. You back on the team, or just making a social call?”

  “A little of both. Unofficially.”

  “Got it. You’re timing’s good. I just spent half the day down at evidence storage. Nearly had to give a pound of flesh in exchange for this beauty.” Rodgers held out a boxy black laptop that looked several years old. “Do you know about the Johanna Clement case?”

  “I do. Villiers called me up,” Kelly said.

  “Thorough, that doc. Well, there’s almost nothing in her file, but the Met did hang on to this doorstop, so I’ve been looking through it. At first, it was about as helpful as the investigation report. Nothing but news and Facebook, and shoe shopping on her browser, a few emails from her mum. But luckily, I’ve picked up a few tricks hanging around Joshi here. The bin on the computer was empty, so I ran a recovery diagnostic to see if there were any trashed files that hadn’t been written over.” Rodgers looked at Joshi, clearly proud of himself.

  “Yeah, and did you find the queen’s cell phone number in there?” Joshi jabbed.

  “Not quite. But I did find a spreadsheet with a list of names and numbers.”

  “You know that she was in the escort business?” Kelly said.

  “Didn’t say anything about that in the file.”

  “I read an article written at the time of her death by Nigel Brickmat, so I talked to him. He says she had clients in high places, but his editor killed the story.”

  “I looked it over, but didn’t recognize anyone on the list. Here, have a look yourselves.”

  Kelly read the names off the screen. They may have been people of some stature, but none rang any bells, until she got two-thirds down the row.

  “Look at that,” she said, tapping Joshi’s arm and pointing with her index finger.

  Joshi read the name aloud.

  “Graham Dalton.”

  Kelly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. The call was coming from inside the station.

  “Detective Moore,” she answered.

  “Hello, Detective. It’s Superintendent Frame.” Kelly was surprised to hear the voice that was tinged with barely concealed disgust. “Your friend Peter Ames is getting his way. It’s come down from the commissioner himself that you’re to be reinstated on the Ames case.”

  “Really? I’m happy to hear that.”

  “It is, however, conditional. You are here now in the role of advisor to the investigation. To be clear, this means strategy and guidance. There will be no more street investigations leading my people into dangerous situations. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s crystal clear.”

  “Good. I’ll inform DCI Dunne, and you can report to him.”

  Kelly ended the call and looked at Joshi and Rodgers.

  “I’m back.”

  45

  Dunne was at his desk with the phone to his ear and his eyes focused on the screen in front of him. He nodded gravely at Kelly, and motioned for her to pull up a chair.

  “That’s right, send anything you’ve got on over to us. Top priority.” He hung up the receiver and turned to Kelly.

  “You use the transporter to beam yourself over? Couldn’t have been more than three minutes since Frame told me that you’re back on the case.”

  “Just happened to be in the neighborhood when the call came in.” She smirked.

  “Right. Well, it’s good that you’re sitting down. That was White Hart Lane station on the phone. We’ve found Jenny Hooks.”

  “Good. She’s due for another round of questions.”

  “Unfortunately for all those involved, she won’t be answering any more questions.”

  “No?”

  “An hour ago, an estate agent went into a warehouse with a client in Tottenham. They found a disfigured body in the middle of the room. Here are the crime scene photos.”

  Dunne opened a window on his monitor. A photo of Jenny Hooks lying prone in a dark puddle greeted them. Her black hair was stuck to the floor and her head was partially severed from her neck, echoing the tattoo on her left shoulder.

  “There was a backpack with Jenny’s ID, a bottle of vodka, a change of clothes, and some toiletries. We had put out a bulletin for her when she went AWOL a couple of days ago, and we just got the call from the crime scene team.”

  Kelly sat silently and looked at the horrific photograph on the screen. For a moment, her vision went white and she saw the image of Cass in Jenny’s place.

  Dunne was taken by Kelly’s blank stare. He waited.

  Kelly snapped back to the present. “I just saw Joshi and Rodgers downstairs,” she said. “They’ve both made breakthroughs that link Priscilla Ames and Johanna Clement.” She filled in the details for Dunne. “They’re looking through the databases and doing recon for any clues about the screen name aliases.”

  “I’ll check in with them,” Dunne said. “And then, let’s you and I talk with Avery Moss. See if she’s heard of Graham Dalton, or has any ideas about MrkLewis60. She’s due to be transferred to Pentonville this afternoon, so we should try to catch up with her.”

  Avery looked up from her book when Kelly unlocked the holding cell door with a hopeful expression on her face; the sight of another New Yorker giving her a brief, irrational glimmer of hope. Then Dunne appeared behind Kelly, and Avery’s expression changed. She looked crestfallen.

  “Hi, Avery,” Kelly said. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay,” Avery said. Her voice was agreeable, almost pleasant, though her posture suggested she was defeated and broken down.

  Avery followed them to the small interrogation room near her holding cell. Kelly and Dunne sat across from her.

  “Are we recording?” Kelly asked Dunne.

  Dunne took the wireless remote from its holder on the wall and set it up. He spoke the date and time and the name of everyone in the room, then nodded at Kelly. “All set.”

  “Avery…” Kelly began. “We’re trying to identify the person behind the webcam porn site that Priscilla was on. Would you look at these pic
tures and tell us if you recognize anyone?”

  Dunne pulled out the stack of photos that Joshi had printed. They were headshots of thirty-six different men in the UK named Graham Dalton. Five were former convicts and thirty-one were from LinkedIn profiles. They included salesmen, teachers, and even a government minister. It was unlikely that the porn site administrator had used a real name, but people do stupid things sometimes, and it was all they had to go on.

  Avery looked at the photos one by one, shaking her head. As she reached the last picture, Kelly asked, “What about Graham Dalton? Did you ever hear Priscilla mention anyone by that name?”

  Avery looked distant and thoughtful. “No,” she said plainly. “I don’t think we knew anyone named Graham. Did you try asking Jenny? She knows tons more people in London than I do.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you,” Kelly said, “Jenny was murdered. Her body was discovered just this morning.”

  Avery looked as if she might collapse. “What the hell is going on?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Kelly said.

  “At least I have an alibi. It must be the same person that killed Roane.”

  “We don’t know, but we’re getting closer to the killer,” Dunne said. “And we’re hoping you can help us. What about someone with the last name Lewis; Mike Lewis or Mark Lewis…”

  “No, no one that I can think of,” Avery said as she absently sifted through the photos in front of her. “Most of these men are a lot older than me and Pris. We didn’t really know a lot of people outside of school; at least I didn’t. There wasn’t time or really any reason to meet anyone else. I think the only people we even really had contact with who were much older than us were the professors and people at school.”

  Avery’s eyes darted to the floor and she continued. “I mean… Most of the teachers are cool. Some are kinda creepy, but harmless.”

  Kelly sat up straighter. She felt Dunne’s attention sharpen next to her.