This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel

by Claire Kittridge

  “What do you mean by that?” Dunne asked.

  “I don’t know,” Avery said. “Like the new guy in the admissions office. He’s got that weird eye thing—kinda stares a little too long…. And Professor Donaghue. But he’s not a murderer.”

  Kelly and Dunne waited for Avery to continue.

  “You’ve met him, right? The films he watches, what he says in class sometimes. The guy runs a whole class about voyeurism. Pris and I sat through a bunch of movies where there are old dudes looking through telescopes and binoculars and cameras with long lenses, making videos of women. Even one from the 60s about a psycho that liked to film himself killing women. Peeping Tom. Goofy. But screwed up.”

  “Any of these guys could be killers,” Avery went on, picking up one of the photos from the table. “Here, this one. Looks like he just walked right off the set of some creeper flick.” Avery slumped down in her chair, defeated. Her shoulders shook, and she started sobbing uncontrollably.

  A few minutes later, Kelly and Dunne were walking down the hall to the incident room. They had sat with Avery until her crying died down and a constable took her back to her holding cell.

  Joshi was sitting at a desktop computer with several browser windows open to pictures of men. A spiral notebook in front of her contained lists of names and descriptions.

  “Any luck with the flatmate?”

  “Not at all. She didn’t recognize the names or any of the pictures. But I think seeing the photos of all those men really got to her. She said they reminded her of movie stalkers and murderers.”

  “That so?” Joshi said, taking the top photo from Dunne’s hand. “This one is.”

  “Is what?”

  “A film creep. It’s James Spader. He played a bloke named Graham Dalton in Sex, Lies, and Videotape. It came up when I searched the name, so I threw it in as a control.”

  Kelly and Dunne exchanged a look.

  “The movie angle is interesting,” Joshi went on. “While you were in there, I was searching anything related to Mark Lewis or Mr. K. Lewis. I started with well-known persons, as it seems likely that the screen name would be an avatar of some sort—not a proper name.”

  “What have you found?”

  “A fancy libel lawyer, Olympic track medalist, e-commerce CEO, nothing too exciting. But when I throw 1960 into the mix, the search comes back with a character from a movie. A psychological thriller. Peeping Tom.

  Kelly turned to Dunne.

  “It looks like a visit to Professor Donaghue is in order.”

  46

  Dunne knocked loudly on the front door. The building was a narrow house on a back street that looked to Kelly like countless other London neighborhoods. It was the warmest day since she had been in London. She noticed Dunne’s skin glistening beneath his collar.

  Dunne knocked again forcefully. They had been to the school but were told that the professor didn’t have any classes that day. The heavy drapes in the first-floor windows were drawn shut.

  “He could be out,” Dunne said.

  “He’s here,” Kelly replied. “I’m sure of it.”

  Dunne knocked louder.

  A lock clicked. The door cracked open slowly. Donaghue looked out at Kelly and Dunne, his eyes full of fear. He looked small.

  “We need to come in,” Kelly said.

  Professor Donaghue opened the door without speaking, and the investigators walked inside. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the house was dark; the blinds had been drawn, the lights were off. In one of the rooms a television was on, the low murmur of a show seeping through the house. There was a dank smell of old carpets and damp days.

  “Where do you keep your computer?” Dunne asked. “We need to see it.”

  Donaghue still did not speak but turned, and began to walk through the kitchen and up a staircase. Kelly and Dunne followed. The house was cramped and narrow, with two rooms on each floor. Donaghue led them to a room where a long table with a desktop computer was set up across from a couch. At the end of the table was a bottle of the Glenmorangie and a greasy tumbler. The walls were painted a deep navy blue above dark walnut wainscoting.

  “This is where you watched Priscilla Ames?” Dunne asked.

  Donaghue looked like a trapped animal; his eyes darted around the room nervously.

  “Please, professor,” Kelly said. “Have a seat.” She gestured toward the couch, but Donaghue remained standing. “You must have known that eventually we would come back to you. It took some time, but we know that you were watching Priscilla the night she died.”

  Donaghue put both hands flat on the desk and lowered his head, his lanky frame blocking the computer.

  “Why, professor?” Dunne said. “Why did you push her to do it?”

  “It wasn’t what I wanted,” Donaghue finally spoke, still looking down at the desk. “I never meant her any harm.”

  “Was it all for a thrill?” Dunne continued. “Is that all her life meant to you, a few minutes of cheap pleasure?”

  “No!” Donaghue said with force. “I loved her. I only wanted to watch. I’m sure you’ve seen the chats, I never suggested the gun. I could never. She was so perfect, so beautiful.”

  Kelly felt her stomach churn and had to suppress the urge to clock the old man in the jaw. She was sure she could break it with one well-placed hit, but she knew from experience that would only shut him up and what they needed was information. “Let’s start from the beginning, then,” she said. “How did you find her online?”

  “When I first saw her at the school’s orientation, I knew that she would be perfect. I had to have her.”

  “How long have you been running the porn site, Donaghue?”

  The professor looked startled. “Oh, no. I’ve never run the site. I watch. I pay, but I’m only a customer.”

  “Then how did Priscilla get involved?”

  Donaghue now looked nervous. The thought flashed through Kelly’s mind: He might be a very good actor, or he might truly be this depraved.

  “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

  “Tell us now, and you won’t be harmed. It would be a shame to have to tell the court how you attacked us with that paperweight, and how in our own defense we had to beat you senseless,” Kelly said. “It happens that way all the time in New York.”

  Donaghue turned pale and his right eye twitched. “I tipped him off. Gave him her number and her address. Told him she would be just right.”

  “Who? Who did you tell?”

  “Graham Dalton.”

  “Look, old man,” Dunne said angrily. “We know that’s not his name, just like you’re not Mark Lewis. He caused the death of Priscilla Ames, he killed Roane Davies, and now he’s viciously murdered Jenny Hooks. He’s cleaning house. You must be next on his list. Tell us all you know, so we can catch the bugger and lock him up.”

  Donaghue collapsed onto the couch. “He killed Jenny, too?” He stared into the open doorway, then looked back at the detectives. “I don’t know who he is. I’ve never met him in person. We only communicate online, or over the phone.”

  “Then call him now and say that you want to see him.”

  “I… He’ll know it’s a setup. He’ll never agree.”

  “You’ll be able to swing it, I know you can. A grand actor of the stage, like you. Send him a message, tell him you’re worried and need to talk. He’ll think it’s a good opportunity to get you out of the way.” Kelly was counting on his cowardice and the killer’s inability to resist finishing off Donaghue.

  Donaghue’s face was drained of color. He walked over to the desk, sat down at the computer, and began to type.

  “There,” he said a moment later. “It’s sent.”

  “Good, we’ll wait. In the meantime, tell us how Priscilla died. What did you see?”

  Donaghue looked at the bottle of scotch on the table. “Do you mind?”

  “Might as well,” Dunne said.

  The professor poured a generous shot of whiskey, drinking half of it do
wn in one short gulp. “Awful,” he said. “When I saw the gun, I was shocked. I—I thought it was a toy, but then she loaded it, and I knew that it was real.”

  “And the danger turned you on,” Kelly said flatly.

  Donaghue hesitated. “Yes,” he said in whisper.

  Kelly jumped over the desk and grabbed Donaghue by the neck. She lifted him out of the chair and slammed him up against the wall. A muffled sound came from his throat, and Kelly felt a strong hand on her shoulder.

  “Ease off, Kelly,” Dunne said close to her ear.

  Kelly released her grip, and Donaghue regained his footing.

  He took in several deep breaths, sat down, and finished the whiskey from his glass.

  “I didn’t see a thing,” Dunne said casually. “Please, professor, continue.”

  Donaghue poured another drink and looked vacantly into the computer screen. “She played with the gun, said it was only a game. I thought maybe she wouldn’t do it, that she’d put it down and touch herself instead. But then Avery came into the room.” He paused. Avery’s story hadn’t been made public. There was no way he could know unless he’d seen it.

  Donaghue continued, describing the scene exactly as Avery had told it to Kelly and Dunne. “Then Roane appeared, and the screen went black.”

  Donaghue was sobbing now, but Kelly felt no sympathy for him.

  “Do you have access to the video now?”

  “Well, I did download the session—I had been doing it regularly. But I was too afraid of what I’d seen, so I deleted the file.”

  “Afraid? Yes. Afraid of the scandal, of losing your position. So instead you let an innocent girl take the fall, and two other people die senselessly.”

  One sharp ping sounded from Donaghue’s computer.

  “Tell him to meet you at the Albert Bridge, by the toll booth on the south side, tomorrow at noon.”

  Donaghue rubbed his neck gingerly, then typed.

  The computer pinged again. Kelly stood up to look over Donaghue’s shoulder. He flinched.

  “Meet me in two hours, same place,” Kelly read out loud.

  “What do I say?” Donaghue asked.

  “Get up,” Kelly said. She sat down in front of the computer and typed:

  “Too difficult today. Better tomorrow.”

  The computer pinged right back. Kelly read the response out loud. “Not a choice. Albert Bridge in two hours.”

  The chat window closed. Conversation over.

  Kelly shut the computer down, then Dunne tied Donaghue’s hands behind his back with a plastic cuff. “Have a seat on the couch, old boy. Detective Moore and I are going to have a conversation on the landing.”

  “Do you think we can pull it off in two hours?” Kelly asked Dunne once they left the room.

  “We’ve got no choice,” he replied. “Dalton will be looking for the professor, and none of us knows what he looks like. I’ll stay here with Donaghue, for now, and call in for an Armed Response Unit to back us up. Get a hold of Joshi and Rodgers and meet them there ASAP. This may be the only chance we get.”

  47

  He watched the video feed trained on the front of Donaghue’s house. Do they really think I’m that stupid?

  On the screen, he saw Moore step out of the doorway. She had taken off her jacket. Her white short-sleeved shirt revealed her taut arms and strong shoulders.

  She looked both ways down the road, then directly up at the street lamp where he had placed the camera. It gave him pause for an instant, but he doubted that she knew what she was looking at. Then she hurried down the street in the direction of the tube station. On her way to the bridge, no doubt.

  He smiled and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. He couldn’t have planned it better himself. Donaghue lived just a few minutes away. Soon he would have the professor and the New York detective exactly where he wanted them.

  He got up and walked into the next room, knowing precisely what he was looking for. On a high shelf, in a box marked “miscellaneous,” he found the smooth leather holster and pushed it into the small of his back. Returning to his den, he checked the safety on his 9mm Glock 17 and placed it snugly against his body. He glanced at the image of the quiet street and sheathed the stiletto in his jacket.

  This time, there would be no mistakes.

  48

  Dunne stood in the doorway of Donaghue’s kitchen, looking at the man sitting on the plain wooden chair with his hands tied behind him. He wondered what it would take for a person to sink to such depths—to prey on the frailties of youth, to be able to witness a death and not come forward. Was Michael Donaghue simply born without any moral compass, with an inability to sense right from wrong? Was it a ruined childhood that failed to teach him the difference? Or had he started out like most, with proper ethical standards, then become jaded over the years?

  He wondered if Donaghue had yearned to be a star of stage and screen, but, through lack of talent or effort, found himself in the rut of academia. Past his prime, sentenced to preach the gospel of art to those with their whole adult lives ahead of them, it had worn him down until exploiting his students’ youth and beauty seemed part of the natural order.

  Either way, Dunne thought, the future didn’t hold much for Professor Donaghue.

  A constable was on the way to collect Donaghue’s computer, and, with a bit of ingenuity, Joshi would be able to recover the video of Priscilla’s death and other evidence.

  In a few minutes, they would be on their way to the bank of the Thames and the Albert Bridge.

  Donaghue only needed to show enough backbone to draw Graham Dalton out of hiding. He would be fitted with a knife-proof vest. An SCO19 unit would be watching from an unmarked car on the bridge and the perimeter, ready to pounce when Dunne gave the signal. They were already getting into position.

  Dunne’s phone rang. It was Superintendent Frame calling him back.

  “Jack, what’s going on?”

  “I’m at Michael Donaghue’s house and have taken him into custody. DI Joshi found evidence linking him directly to the death of Priscilla Ames, and he has confessed what he knows.”

  Dunne went on, explaining to Frame the details of the screen names and the meeting that had been set up.

  “It’s risky,” Frame said when he had finished.

  “Yes, but I don’t see any other way.”

  “A lot could go wrong,” she said. “For one thing, you’re taking Donaghue at his word. And even if he is telling the truth, you’re putting his life in danger in addition to the lives of bystanders in a public place. You know how things can be for a person inadvertently caught in the crossfire. We don’t want to have a hostage situation on our hands.”

  The oblique reference to his wife’s murder sent Dunne’s blood pressure soaring. His temples throbbed as blood rushed to his head.

  “It’s true, ma’am,” he said, his voice barely concealing his anger. “But we’re prepared. Specialist Firearms Command has been alerted and are preparing the scene as we speak. This man has killed three times that we know of, and we must take the risk.”

  The loud sound of screeching tires distracted Dunne from hearing Frame’s response. He shoved the phone into his pocket and ran to the front window in time to see a young boy lying in the road and a silver sedan reversing quickly down the street.

  Dunne cursed under his breath. He ran into the kitchen and pulled a pair of metal cuffs from his pocket.

  “Don’t even think about going anywhere,” he said, while he secured one end of the handcuffs to the chair and the other to Donaghue’s wrist.

  Dunne jumped over the three steps that led to the sidewalk and ran into the road. The driver had reversed to the far end of the street and was blowing the horn at the oncoming traffic, trying to back out of the narrow road and on to the main thoroughfare. At Dunne’s feet, a boy that looked about six years old lay screaming in pain. The sound felt like a hand had reached inside Dunne’s chest and tore at his heart with fingernails sharpened to f
ine points. The boy had pale blonde hair and was wearing a light blue jersey that read “Kung Fu Master” in gothic lettering surrounding a drawing of a fighter with his leg kicking the air. The boy’s own leg was twisted in a way that looked as if it had been taken off and sewn back on sideways. His black track pants were torn along their length, revealing an inch of smooth white bone protruding from a dark spot in the child’s thigh. The acrid smell of burnt tire rubber filled the air.

  A woman came rushing into the street and over to the screaming child.

  “Call an ambulance!” Dunne shouted at her.

  She took out her phone and knelt down next to the boy. “It’s going to be alright, hon. You’re going to be fine,” she said to the boy, stroking his dark hair reassuringly as she held the phone to her ear.

  She’ll take care of the boy. Dunne sprinted in the direction of the retreating car. The road became a blur as he ran headlong down the street, but by the time he got to the corner, the silver car was gone. Dunne stood in the crossroads, hearing the boy screaming as if right alongside him. Cars swerved and blew their horns. Dunne realized he was in the middle of a wide avenue, not seeing anything other than the image of his own son lying in the road, crying.

  The shrill notes of an ambulance siren sounded in the distance. It wasn’t clear how long he had been standing there, looking for the driver.

  Dunne turned and ran back to where the woman was still holding the boy in the road. The child’s cries had turned from a piercing wail to a steady, rhythmic whimper. A man wearing a brown business suit stood facing traffic, keeping the oncoming cars at bay while an ambulance with its deafening siren and lights flashing drove in from the opposite direction.

  Dunne looked again at the boy and remembered with a jolt why he was there.

  The professor.

  As soon as he entered the house, Dunne knew that something was wrong.

  He rushed into the kitchen but Donaghue was gone. The wooden chair smashed to bits.