No Mark upon Her

“Goodnight, Mrs. Craig,” he echoed. And even though they were going the same way, he paid her the courtesy of letting her walk alone until she had vanished from his sight.

Gemma had rung Melody as soon as she left Betty’s flat. She was prepared to go straight to the station, but Melody had hesitated, then said, “Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, boss. Why don’t we meet for a drink? Say, the Duke of Wellington. I’ll be there before you.”

The pub, at the intersection of Portobello Road and Elgin Crescent, was one Gemma knew well—at least from the outside. A pair of jazz guitarists—session musicians—busked outside on fine Saturday afternoons and she’d often stopped to listen, smiling with pleasure and dropping a pound or two in the open guitar case.

But, she realized, she’d never actually been inside the establishment. And for Melody to be there before her, she must have already been nearby.

The building was Victorian, stuccoed in pale pink, and not terribly prepossessing. But when Gemma entered by the Portobello door, she found an air of cheerful bustle. She spied Melody immediately, seated at a small, high table at the very back of the room. Gemma made her way round the bar and joined her, slipping onto the high stool.

Melody handed her a glass. “I’ve ordered you a G and T. You’re going to need it.”

“What’s going on?” asked Gemma. “And what are you doing here?”

“When you didn’t answer your phone, I called the house and talked to Kit. He said you were at Betty’s. I was coming to find you.”

Melody looked strained and windblown, her dark hair mussed from the chill breeze that had come up with the dusk. It was unlike her not to have tidied up. She drank from her own glass, which was, Gemma saw, already half empty.

“Boss, I’ve found something. I kept at the files this afternoon. First, this.” Melody reached for her bag and handed Gemma a sheet of paper.

Gemma scanned a list of names.

“Six female police officers, in the last ten years,” said Melody. “There’s some variation in the stories, but they all fit the same general pattern. They were either single or their husbands or boyfriends or in one case, a girlfriend, were away. All had been out to a pub or a party, something work related. All said they were attacked when they returned home by an unknown intruder. None reported obvious signs of breaking and entering at their place of residence. None could identify their assailant.”

Gemma stared at her, then took a gulp of her drink while she scanned the list again. The gin burned her throat and she coughed. “Different divisions?” she asked when she could speak again.

“Yes. And most seem to correlate with Angus Craig’s postings at the time. The others had been to functions that might have been attended by any senior officer.”

“Bloody hell,” Gemma muttered. “I was right.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Melody shrugged. “Or worse, depending on your point of view. That’s as far as I’d got when I found this.” This time she handed Gemma a sheaf of papers. “From six months ago. It was in our records because of the rape.” She glanced round, but the other tables were filled with after-work drinkers absorbed in their own conversations, and the noise level in the pub was rising.

“Her name was Jenny Hart,” said Melody. “She was a DCI, Tower Hamlets. But she lived in Campden Street, right on the border between Holland Park and Kensington. Not too far from me, actually.”

“You said was. And lived. Past tense.” Gemma’s glass felt cold and damp in her hand.

Melody drank from hers until there were only ice cubes left. “Jenny Hart was divorced, forty years old, and from the photos in her file, an attractive blonde. She also had a reputation for liking to drink a bit, especially at the Churchill Arms, just down the street from her flat. Ever been there?”

Gemma shook her head. “I’ve passed it, though. It’s the place with all the flowers.” It looked the epitome of pubs, with its dark wood and mullioned windows, and the profusion of hanging baskets and window boxes that almost covered the exterior.

“Suffocatingly cozy. Every inch of the place is stuffed with tatty Churchill memorabilia. But the place is bigger than you’d think—it’s a conglomeration of small rooms that seem to ramble on forever.”

“As are you,” said Gemma pointedly. Her mouth felt dry. “Melody, what happened to Jenny Hart?”

Melody clinked her two remaining ice cubes, then met Gemma’s eyes. “On the first of May, Jenny Hart told some mates that she was going for a drink at the Churchill and that afterwards she was going to have an early night. It had been a rough week. They’d had a murdered child on her patch.

“When she didn’t show up for work on Monday, her colleagues were concerned. They rang her but didn’t get an answer. By Tuesday, her neighbors complained of the smell.”

Gemma realized the pub had filled with the odor of meat cooking in the kitchen. She swallowed against a sudden queasiness and the knowledge of what she knew was coming. “How?” she said simply.

“She was raped. And then she was manually strangled. According to the postmortem notes, the bruising on her throat was in accordance with thumb- and fingerprints. There was considerable damage to her flat. She must have put up quite a fight. But there were no signs of breaking and entering.”

Gemma took a breath. “And?”

“Our old friend Kate Ling did the postmortem, by the way. She was, of course, very thorough. There was tissue under Jenny’s fingernails. And there was semen in her vagina and smeared on her torn clothing. Her assailant couldn’t be bothered with condoms.

“I cross-checked the profiles. The DNA found on Jenny Hart matches the samples from the other female officers who reported they were raped, as well as Becca Meredith’s. The rape matches had been flagged by Project Sapphire, but there was never a suspect for comparison.”

Like Melody, Gemma finished her gin and tonic in one long gulp. “But Becca didn’t name him in her rape report, so there’s no proof that any of the DNA was Craig’s. We need some way to tie him directly to Jenny Hart.”

Nodding at the papers in Gemma’s hand, Melody said, “Take a look.”

Gemma flipped through copies of Jenny Hart’s postmortem results, the lab data, statements from her colleagues and neighbors. At the back was something that certainly hadn’t been included in the original file—a photo of Angus Craig, one of a group of men in evening dress, some of whom she recognized as other senior police officers.

“Commissioner’s Ball,” said Melody before Gemma could ask. “Last year. From the very useful files of the Chronicle. The thing is, according to the statements, one of the staff at the Churchill thought she remembered seeing Jenny talking to a man that night. But it was packed, and she only had a vague recollection. The closest she could come to a description was ‘middle-aged.’ Not very helpful if you had nothing to compare it to.”

Gemma straightened up so fast she bumped her knees against the small table, rocking it precariously. She steadied her glass. “Did you talk to her?”

“I went to the Churchill. According to the manager, the barmaid’s name is Rosamond. She’s been on holiday in France for the last few days, but she’s on shift tomorrow. Starting at lunch.”

Gemma’s head reeled. Could it possibly be that easy, if Angus Craig had been preying on women for years? But sometimes—sometimes if they were very, very lucky—it was. All it took was one sound witness statement, cause enough to request a DNA sample.

It wouldn’t matter if the other female officers still refused to testify against him. All they needed was Jenny Hart. And if the samples matched, there was no way in hell Angus Craig could bully his way out of a murder charge.

Chapter Eighteen