Where Death Rejoices: Kate Gardener Mysteries, #8

By Gabriella Messina

Caught between Scylla...

Lawyer Ethan Warwick is found murdered, his body bound to the Traitor's Gate. The body has barely reached the morgue, though, before an explosive crime rocks an entire neighborhood in South London.

Tensions run high when a popular Muslim Youth leader is injured in the blast and the Murder Squad detectives are drawn into the investigation when a body is found in the rubble... with stab wounds.

And Charybdis...

Kate Gardener struggles to work with Anti-Terror officers hovering around Lambeth, while the situation involving the Cavendish Club reaches fever pitch... One member is gunned down and now even the Prime Minister's life is in danger.

In pursuit of justice for the dead and the living, Kate finds herself between a rock and a hard place as she decides what she is prepared to do... and to sacrifice... in the place Where Death Rejoices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriella Messina
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393305941

Gabriella Messina

Always a spinner of tales, Gabriella Messina’s journey as an author began in the realm of screenwriting. Whether writing fantasy or crime fiction, short stories or full-length novels, Ms. Messina brings a fresh point of view and a snarky wisdom to her work, exploring science, justice, faith and feeling in equal measure. In addition to her creative writing, Ms. Messina helps other authors reach their goals, designing book covers and graphics, and providing proofreading and editing services.  When not writing, she enjoys indulging in her favorite “guilty pleasures”: coffee and chocolate, watching car racing with her son, and spending too much time looking at music videos online.

Book preview

Prologue

Chambers of Ethan Warwick

June 20th... 4 PM

The door to his office was locked securely; of that much Ethan Warwick was certain.

He’d raced back from the Met like he was being chased, and he might have been. Grayson would have called him paranoid but he felt them... the eyes following him... eyes attached to faces, and to bodies that carried guns or worse. For the umpteenth time, he wished that Pierce had been at the Met when he got there. He could have simply talked to Det. Superintendent Hagen; simply laid it out and borne what consequences must be borne. They must; it was time. The girl had been dead for more than a decade... Years of covering up, hiding, lying, dreading, all coming to a head because of that American bitch...

Now, his conscience pricked, you can’t blame Kate Gardener for all your troubles. Sooner or later, you were going to get caught. You know that... you all knew that... Warwick sighed, pouring himself another double shot of whiskey with a shaking hand. They all knew that. No matter how much it was dismissed by Lusk and others, it was only a matter of time.

Warwick froze, poised to drink... He thought he’d heard the front door. He turned to glance out the windows of his chambers’ office. It had been a real get for him when he’d been promoted to partner and given this office in front. With the view of the street and the entrance stairs, Warwick had a prime position to see prospective clients as well as peers when they approached, expected or not. He wasn’t expecting anyone now; it was late and most of the others were either still at court or heading home for the night. He glanced at the ostentatious clock on the mantle. His father had passed it to him when he took the silk, assuring him that "a Warwick should always be mindful of the time". Warwick could never fathom what he meant by that, as the bloody clock never ran on time from day one; whether too fast or too slow, he had never been able to depend on it and had finally given up even winding it. He’d considered putting it away, but now that his father had passed, it served as a sort of memorial for him, and Warwick’s guilty conscience when it came to his family.

The sound of the front door once again brought his attention back to the window. One of the young clerks was leaving for the night; her skirt too short, her face too made up. Warwick felt that little pull of desire in him as he watched her leave. It was difficult not to lust after the young ladies who came through as clerks, and as a young barrister, he’d dabbled more than his share in the proverbial pond. Now, though... time had taken its toll on him. They no longer looked at him with need, whether for his body or his patronage and with the weight of Svetlana’s death... Warwick felt a shiver go through him and he drained his glass, hoping the alcohol would steady him a bit. He hadn’t thought of her as a person with a name in so long... Svetlana... Svetlana Pemchenko...

He’d never meant to hurt her. She was an angel with golden hair who did anything you wanted, and she inexplicably wanted him. He knew it, felt it... and he knew she’d consented for his sake. Warwick could feel the chill going through him, his hands shaking as he poured more whiskey, tears welling in his eyes as the emotions began to flow freely courtesy of the alcohol. It was Lusk’s fault, of course; he’d guided the tying of the ropes, helped truss her up, and they’d been too tight, and she’d hung too long.

But it was your fault. You could have stopped it. The words pierced Warwick’s mind but he let them continue, didn’t stop them with rationalizations and excuses as he so often did. Tonight, he would wallow in his guilt because the guilt was just, it was right. He’d seen her stop moving, heard the shallow sounds of her breathing, saw the ropes cutting into her skin as the weight of her body became a dead weight. He recalled the shock on Grayson’s face; the fear in Lusk’s eyes, even as he barked directions to them; and the Devereux brothers...

The knocking on his office door was soft, but Warwick’s heightened emotional state made hearing it quite easy. He felt his stomach clench in anxious knots, the chill that ran through him becoming almost unbearable, causing his teeth to chatter. He listened, hoping that it was someone from chambers passing along a case, or simply saying goodnight. Perhaps he’d undervalued his machismo and one of the young clerks was looking to engage him for non-legal purposes. The thought amused him and he chuckled, the sound chasing away some of the chills and helping him get control of himself. He swallowed the last of the whiskey in his glass and cleared his throat before speaking.

Who is it? The sound he received in reply was soft and feminine, and again he wondered if perhaps he would have a pleasurable night after all. He looked at the clock, forgetting for a moment that it no longer kept time... 4:30. Rising, Warwick closed the distance to the door; he paused, running his fingers through his thinning blonde hair, and plastered a pleasant look on his face before unlocking the door and opening it.

1

Traitor’s Gate, Tower of London

June 21st ... 1 AM

The bright lights of the Tower Bridge were doing little to illuminate the crime scene nearby. They look really pretty, though, Kate Gardener thought as she leaned against the railing near the Thames, watching the forensic team as they carefully loaded the body of Ethan Warwick into a bag. Dr. Monaghan stopped them before they closed the bag, kneeling and busying herself in her scene kit. Kate knew what she was doing; the pathologist needed to get a temperature on the body as soon as possible to be able to gauge the time of death more accurately. It had taken longer to detach the body from where it hung than they had anticipated, and with the unpredictability of water involved, several officers and techs had ended up dunked in the river during the process.

Kate sighed, finishing off her cigarette and tossing the remaining filter into the river. People were starting to leave already; two of the forensic vehicles had left, along with several of the police cars. The Met detectives were still on-site, though. Detective Superintendent Douglas Hagen was coping as well as expected, considering he’d just seen the victim a few hours before. He’d immediately blamed himself for not keeping the man in his office. According to Hagen, the now-dead barrister had come in searching for Detective Sergeant Pierce; as the sergeant wasn’t in at the time, he promptly left with entreaties for Hagen to put Pierce in touch with him as soon as possible. As she watched the older man speak to his officers, Kate couldn’t help but wonder what had been so urgent that the lawyer so desperately needed to talk with the one cop he seemed to hate the most. Warwick, and a number of his friends, had a kind of vendetta against Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce, one that no one seemed to be able to explain or want to explain, and Kate was inclined to think that somehow it all connected back to the case of Svetlana Pemchenko. She sighed, lighting another cigarette and settling in for the wait; hoping whatever Hagen was discussing with his officers would wrap up soon. Although she needed to get her camera back to the lab and check in the flash drives and film, Kate didn’t want to ride back with Monaghan. She’d come here with Pierce and was hoping –

Kate? Shit... Monaghan was waving her over to the body. Kate threw a glance at the officers before taking a final drag of her half-smoked cigarette and tossing it in the Thames as well. She crossed the cobblestone yard to Monaghan’s side, hoping the motive for calling her over wasn’t to give her a lift back. She’d feel obligated to accept, and Kate wanted to wait for Pierce...

Kate, look at this. Monaghan pointed to an area around the victim’s neck. Kate crouched down as she donned gloves, then carefully pulled the edge of the man’s collar back from his throat. The angry wounds from the rope were there, some already turning a blackish-purple in color. Kate’s gaze narrowed as she studied the skin surface.

It looks like... Kate began, using her other gloved hand to gently touch the skin of the throat, like he was choked more than once.

Monaghan nodded. Yes. You can see the discoloration beneath the red mark. She sighed rather raggedly. Alright, let’s get him back to the lab. Make sure he’s at the top of the schedule. The two women stood up and watched silently as one of the techs zipped up the body bag, tying the two pulls together with a tag and a plastic zip-tie, effectively sealing the bag until it was opened by the pathologist. Then they lifted the bag on to the cart and wheeled it toward the waiting van.

I’ll be heading back when he’s loaded. I want to get a few hours sleep and start as soon as possible in the morning, Monaghan said in a low tone, her eyes surveying the scene and the proximity of any remaining on scene. You rode in with Pierce?

Yeah, Kate replied softly.

Lucky he was there. Did he need to pick something up from the lab? Monaghan asked.

Kate shook her head. I don’t think so, I don’t know. She kept her eyes on the scene, and the detectives... especially the tall Irishman. It was true; she didn’t know why Pierce had shown up at Lambeth that evening, although it wasn’t unusual for him to drop in unannounced as a prelude to dinner... She watched as the handsome sergeant looked over and winked at her; her stomach tightened to suppress the onslaught of butterflies and she forced herself not to smile too broadly in return, her mind flashing back to the darkroom... and the feeling of his arms holding her... and the kiss...

The sounds of a siren switching on jolted Kate out of her thoughts. Several of the uniformed officers still there were running for their squad cars, and Hagen was running towards his vehicle. Pierce, on the other hand, was running toward her and Monaghan.

What’s wrong? Kate blurted out the minute he was close enough. Pierce stopped, a deep frown creasing his handsome brow.

We need to go. Well, I need to go, Pierce replied tightly, glancing over at Hagen’s BMW as it slowly approached. I have to go with Hagen. There’s been an explosion in Brixton. The fire brigade is still on-site trying to control the blaze. They think there may have been people inside.

Good God! Monaghan exclaimed. Where was it?

Pierce shook his head. Islamic youth center. Caught part of the mosque next door as well. They’re saying it was likely a gas leak, but... He turned to Kate, his voice softening. I’m going to need you to take my car back to the Met. He reached in his pocket, pulling out the keys to his beloved VW Jetta. Can you do that for me?

Kate nodded. Sure.

Pierce handed her the keys, his fingertips brushing hers as he did. I’ll see you ladies later, he said as he turned and hurried into the passenger side of Hagen’s car. Hagen touched the brim of his fedora to acknowledge the two women, and the car drove away.

That’s interesting, Monaghan said archly, her lips struggling not to smile.

Interesting? Kate ventured, hoping that Monaghan would be tactful and not ask a direct question about her and Pierce that Kate couldn’t answer, primarily because she wasn’t entirely sure herself.

Monaghan smirked. I heard about what happened the last time you drove his car. And Pierce loves his car.

Yeah, well, I’m not used to shifting gears with my left hand. Besides, it’s not my fault ya’ll drive on the wrong side of the road.

Monaghan laughed at that. Point taken. She looked toward the forensic transport van and the driver waved. Right, I’m off. Drive carefully.

Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow. Kate watched as Monaghan hurried to the van, and the vehicle drove away.

Fifteen minutes later, Kate sat in the driver’s seat of Pierce’s Jetta smoking her second cigarette and trying to calm her nerves. She didn’t have a problem driving a standard transmission; she’d learned on one, after all. The problem was the reversal of position and more than that the fact that it was Pierce’s car.

Don’t... break... Rick’s... car, she murmured as she put the key in the ignition and turned. She sat a few more minutes, the engine purring away as she psyched herself up for this. Left-handed shift at night in city traffic... Swell. With a sigh, Kate placed her hand on the stick-shift, foot on the brake and clutch, and shifted it into first gear. The gears didn’t grind, and as she released the brake the car began moving forward. Slight pressure to the gas pedal and soon the car was merging into traffic along the Embankment.

After two stoplights, Kate began to relax. Though it was still a bit awkward, she’d found right away that if she concentrated on listening to the RPMs very deliberately it resulted in smooth shifts. She was driving slower than she would have ordinarily but tempting fate and risking a raucous stripping of gears was simply not in the cards for tonight. It was then that she noticed the car...

It was behind her, almost in her blind-spot... If she’d been in New York, Kate would have pegged it for an unmarked car; it was dingy and old, with rusty spots on the front bumper and a very mid-century paint job. She felt a twinge in her stomach as she carefully followed through a roundabout intersection and bore towards Westminster. She was only a few minutes from the Met and there were enough people on the roads that she doubted her shadow would try anything stupid. Kate smiled. Doesn’t mean I won’t, she thought, and took a quick right, hitting the accelerator as she did. Luckily, only a pair of black cabs were waiting at the light, and while one graced her with a substantial blowing of its horn, no harm came to either.

Kate shifted the straining gears and kept up the pace, daring to look in the rear-view mirror when she was halfway down the street. The car hadn’t followed, or at least wasn’t close. Her guard was up, though, and as she neared the intersection and took a left to go toward the Met, Kate would not have been surprised to see the car appear from one of the side roads. But it didn’t. Soon, the metal and glass façade of New Scotland Yard rose ahead of her and Kate breathed an interior sigh of relief. With a final glance in the mirror, she descended into the cave-like parking ramp.

2

Brixton, South London

The glow of the fire was visible long before Hagen and Pierce arrived on the scene in Brixton. The perimeter extended five blocks in every direction, and several uniformed officers were in the process of pushing back the barriers and urging the people farther away.

This is not good, Hagen muttered, pulling into an alleyway some distance from the barrier. Be prepared for anything, Rick.

Of course, sir, Pierce replied, his frowning gaze fixed on the scene ahead.

The pair walked to the police barrier and, after displaying their warrant cards to the constables there, crossed the barrier and went on. They met the fire chief, along with several firefighters, near a secondary barrier. The fire itself was another four blocks on, but the fire chief vetoed any suggestion of them going forward.

’Fraid not, Superintendent, he said, gesturing to the firemen gathered