No Mark Upon Her

he went to the pub, as he usually does.”
    Had she been relieved at his question, or had he just imagined it? Perhaps it was just that Angus Craig’s outing to the pub was the best part of her day.
    “Mrs. Craig. You’ll have heard about the police officer who drowned. Rebecca Meredith.”
    “Yes. The rower. The news has been all over the village.”
    “Did your husband mention that he knew her? Did he tell you—”
    “Superintendent.” Her voice might have been a touch on his arm, the only plea she would allow herself. “Whatever it is that you feel you need to ask, you must remember that he’s my husband .” There was finality in her words.
    She moved, and when the light caught her face, he thought he glimpsed a despair that was beyond his imagining. Then she had stepped past him. “I must get home. I’ve left Barney too long.”
    “Barney?” he said, confused. Surely there wasn’t a child still at home.
    “My dog. Angus doesn’t care for him in the house. Good night, Superintendent.”
    “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.
    G emma 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