No Mark Upon Her

at the manager’s signal, Gemma saw that the girl was older than she’d first thought, perhaps in her mid-twenties.
    “Ros,” said the manager. “These are the ladies from the police.”
    Gemma moved in close enough to hear Melody ask, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    “There’s an empty table back by the kitchen,” the barmaid answered. “Quieter there.” Turning, she led them through a maze of rooms into, much to Gemma’s surprise, a little indoor garden. It was quieter and cooler, and the three of them squeezed themselves round a small table in the corner.
    “The ferny grotto, I call it,” said Ros. Her accent, Gemma realized, was educated and middle class.
    “Theresa said you wanted to talk to me about Jenny Hart,” the girl continued, looking at them earnestly. Gemma added forthright and confident as bonuses to the accent, and her hopes rose.
    She felt no embarrassment for her bias—she’d been on the job long enough to know that a middle-class witness was automatically given more credence. And, she thought, studying Ros more closely, if you put a long-sleeved blouse on the girl, she might clean up very well.
    “So you remember Jenny Hart?” asked Melody.
    “Of course I do,” Ros said with some asperity. “She came in two or three nights a week, at least, and I served her if I could.” She shook her head, looking stricken. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had happened to her.”
    “How did you come to know her name?” asked Gemma, forgetting for a moment that she was playing the subordinate role.
    Melody gave her a quelling glance and added, “It’s a busy place, and you must serve hundreds of customers in a day.”
    “Not that many women come in regularly on their own. And she was friendly, always had a nice word for all the staff.”
    “Did you know she was a police officer?” Melody asked.
    “Not until one night a few months before she was—before she died. There was a bit of aggro—couple of blokes old enough to know better started a row over a football match. Jenny stood up—straight as a die after two martinis, mind you—pulled out her warrant card and gave them their marching orders.” Ros smiled at the recollection. “They marched, too. She was not going to be messed about and they could tell.
    “After that, we talked more. I was thinking of going into criminal justice, and she was nice enough to give me advice.”
    “And did you?” asked Melody. “Go into criminal justice?”
    “No. I’m reading law.”
    Gemma didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or horrified. The fact that this young woman was clever was certainly in their favor—the fact that she would understand what she was getting into might not be.
    Melody opened her bag, and Gemma’s heart sped up. Even though they’d moved away from the rooms with open fires, she suddenly felt much too warm.
    “Ros,” said Melody. “You told the police that Jenny was here the night she was killed. And that you thought you saw her talking to a man. Can you tell me about that?”
    Ros nodded. “It was a Saturday—well, you know that. Place was packed to the gills. I served Jenny a couple of martinis at the bar. Vodka with just a whisper of vermouth, and a twist—just the way she liked them. I remember she looked tired.” Ros shifted in her chair and crossed her tattooed forearms across her chest.
    “People were shoving to get served, so after the second drink, she moved back a bit. Then I saw her talking to a bloke.” Ros frowned. “I got the impression that she knew him—I’m not sure why. When you work in a bar and you watch people all the time, you just get a feel for the body language. This was different from a stranger pickup.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I think this guy bought her a drink, but I’m not sure. I didn’t serve him. Then I lost sight of them. That’s all,” Ros added, sounding as if she was terribly disappointed in herself. “When the police came to talk to us after they’d found her body, I couldn’t believe it. If I’d only paid more attention—”
    “Stop,” said Melody. “Right now. You mustn’t even begin to think that way. Nothing that happened was your fault. But you can help us now.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “You weren’t able to give the police much of a description, even with the help of the sketch artist.”
    Ros shook her head in obvious frustration. “He was just . . . ordinary. And I wasn’t trying to remember.” She