Natasha replied. ‘He gave me twenty bucks . . . told me to buy something nice for Chloe. Bought her a doll. She loves that doll, still has it. Only reason she would’ve remembered those people.’
‘And they just said they wanted to speak to Darryl, that was all?’
Natasha nodded.
‘And is there anything else you can tell us about this man? Distinguishing marks? Anything unusual about the way he appeared? Tattoos, scars, birthmarks maybe?’
Natasha shook her head. ‘No, there wasn’t nothing else.’
‘Sure, sure, of course,’ Miller said. ‘Anything else you can think of, Miss Joyce?’
‘I don’t know what Darryl was involved in. Hell, I don’t know . . . could be that lady came down here to get some candy for herself and that freak she was with. I saw her maybe twice or three times.’
‘You remember exactly when it was?’
‘About two weeks before Darryl died.’
‘Which was?’
‘October 7th, 2001.’
Roth was making notes in his pocketbook.
‘And you can’t think of anything else that might link Darryl King with this woman?’
‘If I could I’d tell you.’
Miller was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think, Miss Joyce?’ he asked, and there was something compassionate and understanding in his tone.
‘About what? What do I think about what?’
‘About this woman? You think it was the same woman?’
Natasha shook her head. ‘I don’t know . . . I can’t be sure. They look similar, hell they could’ve been sisters, right?’ She laughed suddenly, nervously. ‘I don’t know . . . I really don’t know.’
‘Chloe seemed certain, didn’t she?’
‘Don’t you bring her into this. Jesus Christ, whaddya want from us? Some woman came to see my dead boyfriend five years ago. I can’t tell you how they knew him or what they wanted. She might have been the same—’
‘Was she the same woman, Miss Joyce?’ Miller said, and from his inside jacket pocket he took the digitally enhanced passport photograph of Catherine Sheridan, and the picture was color, and it was a damned sight clearer than the one in the paper, and when he held it up he noticed the sudden change in Natasha’s expression, the way her eyes widened, the way she seemed silently to inhale, as if in surprise, as if in shock, perhaps in fear.
‘I think maybe . . . maybe yes . . . I can’t be sure . . .’
Miller held the picture steady.
Tears welled in Natasha’s eyes.
‘Miss Joyce?’ Miller prompted.
‘Ye-yes,’ she stammered. ‘I think it’s her . . . she’s the one who came . . .’
Miller put the picture back in his jacket pocket. He looked at Roth.
‘I don’t want to get involved,’ Natasha said. ‘This woman has nothing to do with me.’
‘I understand that, Miss Joyce, but she came down here to see Darryl, and—’
‘Jesus man, that was five years ago, you know? Darryl’s dead. Now this woman’s dead as well. For God’s sake, I have a kid.’ She stopped suddenly, looked at Miller closely. ‘You have children?’
Miller shook his head.
Natasha turned to Roth. ‘You have kids . . . you look like you have kids.’
‘Three,’ Roth said.
Natasha turned back to Miller. ‘He understands. Ask him. He knows what it’s like when you have kids. I don’t know what the fuck this woman got herself into, and I sure as hell don’t know why she came down here looking for Darryl, but this is not the kind of shit I want round my daughter. I spent God knows how long keeping her safe from all the bullshit that Darryl brought home with him.’ She breathed deeply, tried to gather herself together. ‘We survived it, you know? We fucking survived all of it. God, sometimes I thought we wouldn’t, but we did. Now it’s over, you understand? I told you what I know . . . I don’t have nothing else to tell you. You go ahead and find whoever did this thing but leave us the hell out of it, okay?’
There was silence in the kitchen for quite a while, and then Miller rose from his chair and
‘And they just said they wanted to speak to Darryl, that was all?’
Natasha nodded.
‘And is there anything else you can tell us about this man? Distinguishing marks? Anything unusual about the way he appeared? Tattoos, scars, birthmarks maybe?’
Natasha shook her head. ‘No, there wasn’t nothing else.’
‘Sure, sure, of course,’ Miller said. ‘Anything else you can think of, Miss Joyce?’
‘I don’t know what Darryl was involved in. Hell, I don’t know . . . could be that lady came down here to get some candy for herself and that freak she was with. I saw her maybe twice or three times.’
‘You remember exactly when it was?’
‘About two weeks before Darryl died.’
‘Which was?’
‘October 7th, 2001.’
Roth was making notes in his pocketbook.
‘And you can’t think of anything else that might link Darryl King with this woman?’
‘If I could I’d tell you.’
Miller was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think, Miss Joyce?’ he asked, and there was something compassionate and understanding in his tone.
‘About what? What do I think about what?’
‘About this woman? You think it was the same woman?’
Natasha shook her head. ‘I don’t know . . . I can’t be sure. They look similar, hell they could’ve been sisters, right?’ She laughed suddenly, nervously. ‘I don’t know . . . I really don’t know.’
‘Chloe seemed certain, didn’t she?’
‘Don’t you bring her into this. Jesus Christ, whaddya want from us? Some woman came to see my dead boyfriend five years ago. I can’t tell you how they knew him or what they wanted. She might have been the same—’
‘Was she the same woman, Miss Joyce?’ Miller said, and from his inside jacket pocket he took the digitally enhanced passport photograph of Catherine Sheridan, and the picture was color, and it was a damned sight clearer than the one in the paper, and when he held it up he noticed the sudden change in Natasha’s expression, the way her eyes widened, the way she seemed silently to inhale, as if in surprise, as if in shock, perhaps in fear.
‘I think maybe . . . maybe yes . . . I can’t be sure . . .’
Miller held the picture steady.
Tears welled in Natasha’s eyes.
‘Miss Joyce?’ Miller prompted.
‘Ye-yes,’ she stammered. ‘I think it’s her . . . she’s the one who came . . .’
Miller put the picture back in his jacket pocket. He looked at Roth.
‘I don’t want to get involved,’ Natasha said. ‘This woman has nothing to do with me.’
‘I understand that, Miss Joyce, but she came down here to see Darryl, and—’
‘Jesus man, that was five years ago, you know? Darryl’s dead. Now this woman’s dead as well. For God’s sake, I have a kid.’ She stopped suddenly, looked at Miller closely. ‘You have children?’
Miller shook his head.
Natasha turned to Roth. ‘You have kids . . . you look like you have kids.’
‘Three,’ Roth said.
Natasha turned back to Miller. ‘He understands. Ask him. He knows what it’s like when you have kids. I don’t know what the fuck this woman got herself into, and I sure as hell don’t know why she came down here looking for Darryl, but this is not the kind of shit I want round my daughter. I spent God knows how long keeping her safe from all the bullshit that Darryl brought home with him.’ She breathed deeply, tried to gather herself together. ‘We survived it, you know? We fucking survived all of it. God, sometimes I thought we wouldn’t, but we did. Now it’s over, you understand? I told you what I know . . . I don’t have nothing else to tell you. You go ahead and find whoever did this thing but leave us the hell out of it, okay?’
There was silence in the kitchen for quite a while, and then Miller rose from his chair and
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