And Justice There Is None Read Online Free PDF

the pathologist said, as much to herself as to them. “No obvious signs of sexual interference. No hesitation marks on the throat. No readily apparent defense wounds.” She looked up at Gemma. “No weapon?”
    “Not that I’ve heard.”
    “Well, I’ll be able to tell you a bit more about what was used here when I get her on the table, but the wound’s very clean and deep.” She probed the chest with gloved fingers. “There seems to be a puncture wound here as well.”
    “What about time of death?” asked Gemma.
    “I’d say very recent. She’s still warm to the touch.”
    “Bloody hell,” Gemma whispered. “I walked right by this house not more than an hour ago. Do you suppose …”
    “Did you see anything?” Kincaid asked.
    Gemma shook her head. “No. But then I wasn’t looking, and now I wonder what I might have missed.” She turned to Kate Ling. “When can you perform the postmortem?”
    “Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Ling said with a sigh. “So much for getting my nails done.” She stood as voices heralded the arrival of the technicians who would photograph the body and the crime scene, and gather every scrap of physical evidence from the area. “Right, I’ll get out of the way and let them do their job. When they get ready to bag the body, have them deliver it to the morgue at St. Charles Hospital. It’s nearby, and convenient for me.” Ling gave Kincaid a jaunty wave and disappeared the way she had come.
    “And I’ll get out of your way,” Kincaid said as he saw Gemma glance at him and hesitate.
    “Will you check on Toby, and let Hazel know what’s happened? I’ve no idea when I’ll get home.”
    “I’ll stay with Toby myself. Don’t worry.” He touched her arm lightly, then made his way back to the street. But rather than getting in his car, he stood, watching from a distance as Gemma directed herteam. As she climbed the front steps and entered the house, he would have given anything to be beside her.
    “B LOODY SODDING HELL! D OUG C ULLEN FUMED, STOMPING INTO HIS ” flat and dropping his briefcase in the hall. He’d been reading his case files on the bus, as was his usual habit on his nightly commute home from the Yard, when he’d come across a scrawled note from Kincaid criticizing the conclusions he’d drawn after interviewing a suspect’s associate.
    I think there’s more here than meets the eye, Doug. This one warrants another interview. Be patient this time, see if you can get under his skin
.
    “Like Sergeant James,” Cullen mimicked Kincaid’s unspoken parenthetical comment. The inestimable Sergeant Gemma James, who had apparently never made a mistake in her entire career at the Yard, and who had, as Kincaid so often reminded him, a special talent for interviewing people.
    Cullen went into the kitchen and stared morosely into his barren fridge. He had meant to get off the bus a stop early and buy a six-pack at the off-license, but it had completely slipped his mind. Filling a glass with water from the tap, he gazed out the window at the traffic moving on the damp, greasy tarmac of Euston Road.
    Of course he’d heard the scuttlebutt round the office about Kincaid’s relationship with his former partner, and he was tempted to put Kincaid’s veneration of her down to personal bias. But even if Sergeant James had been the most exemplary detective, did that mean he had always to be measured by her standard?
    Cullen was introspective enough to realize that a good deal of his ire towards Gemma James had to do with his doubts about his own performance. Of course he was a good detective, he knew that, and he knew he’d never have landed this job at the Yard if his record hadn’t spoken well of him. He was analytical, thorough, good at task management, but he also knew that his weakness lay in his impatience in interviewing witnesses and suspects. He wanted results quickly, andhe wanted them in black and white—neither of which was very likely in police