No Mark Upon Her

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