Free A Simple Act of Violence by R.J. Ellory Page B

anything that connects these women to one place, one person, especially to each other.’
    Miller then called the coroner’s office, was told that the Sheridan autopsy had not been completed, that assistant coroner Hemmings would not be able to see them until the following day. Miller had not seen Hemmings since the coroner’s inquiry on November the 2nd, the testimony that had exonerated him from civil and criminal action. It had been a mess. At one point the police department believed that it could be contained, but no, it had been shared with the world. A routine murder investigation, a visit to question a hooker called Jennifer Anne Irving as a potential witness, the interruption of an act of violence, and Miller had wound up with a lengthy IAD investigation and three months’ suspension.
    Following that had come public appearances, statements from Lassiter and the chief of police, the entire circus cavalcade that followed such things. Outside the courtroom after the final evidence had been submitted, down along the cloisters that separated the main public thoroughfare from the respective judges’ chambers, Miller had shared a few words with Hemmings. Away from the bright lights of intrusive reportage, he had taken a moment to thank her, and as they parted he had hugged her - nothing more complicated than a wish to express his gratitude. It was that moment that had been caught by an alert and eager Globe photographer. The implications of that picture did not need to be spelled out. Nine days had passed since that moment. The death of Catherine Sheridan had intervened. Now he would have to speak with Marilyn Hemmings again. It would be awkward, Miller knew. He was not looking forward to it.
    That Sunday afternoon Roth and Miller buried themselves in the case files. The day would end with more questions than answers. Miller felt the tremendous pressure of the thing, felt the weight of it bearing down on him. He read reports that did not make sense. He isolated areas where questions could have been asked and were not. All the way back to Margaret Mosley in March there were lines of investigation that could have been followed, but now - as in all cases - whatever might have been there would have disappeared. People moved. People forgot things. People touched the edges of such tragedies and did their utmost not to think of them again.
    At six the uniforms left. Metz and Oliver stayed until eight to complete the wallboards that would hold all the relevant maps and photos for each of the four murders. By nine Miller’s head ached relentlessly, and no amount of coffee seemed to relieve it. There were things that did not add up with each of the victims, predominantly questions relating to their identification. Dates of birth did not tally with hospitals or registry departments. The previous investigations had been slipshod. There was a great deal of work to do, and Miller - already feeling the rush and punch of the investigation - nevertheless did not relish the time and attention that such work would entail.
    Roth got ready to leave at quarter of ten, stood in the doorway of the office and asked Miller if he wanted to come over and stay.
    Miller smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t need to be a fifth wheel anywhere.’
    ‘Go home then,’ Roth said. ‘Get a shower, some sleep. This ain’t going anywhere overnight.’
    ‘I won’t be long,’ Miller said. ‘Go see your kids . . . take whatever chances you can get.’
    Roth didn’t say anything else, merely raised his hand and left the room.
    Miller got up from his desk and walked to the window, waited until he saw the lights of Roth’s car pass along the street below. Miller knew Amanda Roth, his partner’s wife; little more than social contact, but he liked her. He had met the Roth children, three of them, fourteen, eleven and seven. Amanda’s folks had helped their daughter and son-in-law buy a three-storey brownstone walk-up when Al was on a nothing salary. Al