Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘Mr Lister,’ Nottingham shouted. Only when the job was done did Lister raise his head.

‘Constable,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s a bad time to call, I’m afraid.’ He gestured around the room, at the piles of paper and the finished copies of the new Leeds Mercury stacked under the front window.

He was a man who seemed to grow more rotund by the month, his long waistcoat barely containing his belly. Careless ink stains smudged his clothes, and there were black flecks on his white hose and across his florid face. But he had a ready grin and an ear for delicious gossip that served him well.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Someone has an advertisement in your new issue,’ the Constable explained. ‘I’d like to see it.’

Lister looked at him shrewdly and picked up a finished copy, his thick fingers smudging the wet words.

‘Anything I should know about?’ he asked with interest.

‘The thief taker. I’m curious about his services.’

‘I remember him. A very curious man, don’t you think?’ He glanced at the Constable but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Told me what he wanted to say and I wrote it down. I don’t think he has his letters. There was something not too pleasant about him.’ He handed over the newspaper. ‘That’ll be a penny ha’penny,’ he said.

Nottingham laughed and dug into his breeches pocket for the coins.

‘It’ll be the best money you spend this week,’ Lister promised with a smile, eyes twinkling.

‘Maybe. I’ll leave you to your business.’

‘Still a few hours of this. Just think, you’re the first in Leeds with all the news.’

He went to the White Swan, next to the jail. The potman brought his ale and the Constable turned the pages of the newspaper, eyes slipping over the print until he found what he wanted.

It was much as Walton had said. For part of the value of the items he’d reunite owners with belongings that had somehow disappeared. For a little more money he’d find the person who’d taken them and bring him to justice. It was an odd, dark trade, but he had to admit it was within the law. What troubled him was that it needed a familiarity with Leeds that the thief taker couldn’t possess; the man hadn’t been in the city long enough to know people or understand the subtleties of the place. Walton could be contacted in care of the Talbot Inn. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. It just meant they’d need to keep a closer eye on the man.

Caroline had gone by the time the deputy returned to Briggate. She could have been off with a man, or maybe she’d gone to the dram shop to drink down some strength for the rest of the day. But he couldn’t wait for her. There were other girls who might have seen Lucy, who might have the answers he needed.

A couple of them remembered her, the timid, ugly creature who seemed to make no money yet came back the next night with her face bruised button-bright and her eyes full of fear, then didn’t return again. But none of them had spoken to her and no one knew who’d been running her. All he could hope was that Caroline had been able to find a name for him; if anyone here was likely to manage it, she’d be the one.

There’d be no point questioning the pimps. These days there were too many of them and the denials would fall too easily from their lips. Instead he went on to other business, the theft of some lace from a shop near the top of Briggate, the report of a pocket picked and two florins stolen. That worried him; it was the third instance inside a week. But without a description of some kind, or the good fortune to catch the thief in the act, they stood little chance: he knew that all too clearly.

Finally he returned to the jail. Nottingham was there, working on another report, sharpening the nib on a quill.

‘She was a whore right enough,’ the deputy said, folding his long body on to a chair. ‘Just not a good one.’

The Constable sat back. ‘How do you mean?’

‘She only worked two nights. Took nothing the first, according to other girls, came back all bruised the next, and that was it. Never returned after that.’

‘Who was pimping her?’ Nottingham ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the fringe.

‘I don’t know yet, boss. Old Caroline’s asking round.’

Nottingham thought for a moment. ‘How long ago was this?’

Sedgwick shrugged. ‘Before the fire on the Calls, that’s all she can really remember.’

The Constable gave a long, deep sigh. ‘That doesn’t help us much.’

‘It’s a start. I’ll keep asking. I suppose the pimp could have killed her.’

‘It’s possible,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘If he beat her once he could do it again. That makes him the best we have.’

‘What about the baby, though, boss? Why would he want to tear the child out of her like that?’

‘I wish I understood that, John. I really do.’

After the deputy had left for the evening the Constable pushed his reports aside. They’d still be there in the morning when he’d be ready to deal with them. He needed to talk to Alice Wendell again.

He locked the door of the jail and walked slowly to the Calls. Leeds was growing quiet, people in their homes, the noises around muted. There was a deep, comforting silence within the sounds of the city, and he reached for the stillness there. Already workmen were busy on the house where they’d found Lucy, he noticed. They’d knocked out much of the bones of the place and put up a new framework, the fresh-cut timber almost golden in the early evening light. The Constable lingered for a minute, amazed as always by the skill of the joiners and builders, then moved on.

He only had to knock once before she answered the door to the cellar room. It didn’t surprise him. As soon as she saw him, for just the briefest moment her face fell. Then she gathered herself, mouth firm and back straight.

‘Tha’d better come in,’ she said.

Inside, the door closed, she kept her gaze direct.

‘I’m sorry,’ he began but she shook her head.

‘Nay,’ she told him. ‘It’s not your fault. I thought you’d be back.’

‘I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Aye. Go on, then.’ Her voice was steady, her gaze firm, but he saw her fingers pressing tightly on the wood of the table. She kept her grief inside, a private thing, not to be shared. The face she showed the world had to be strong.

‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.

‘Six month, near as spitting. Used to be up in the Leylands. But once it were just me, after our Lucy found her position, I wanted somewhere cheaper.’

‘So the folk around here don’t know her?’

‘Nay.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘It were different when we were up there,’ she continued, as if it had been another town and not just a quarter of a mile away. ‘They all knew us there. Everyone looked out for everyone else. Even more when I had my man.’

‘How did he die?’ the Constable asked quietly.

‘He went mad.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Couldn’t work, couldn’t do owt. Finally it seemed like all he had left was words. He’d never been much for talking, but he began to speak and speak. All day, even into the night when he should have been asleep. Then it was like he’d said everything, used it all up, and he was silent. And then he died.’ She gave a small, wan smile. ‘It were a long time ago now.’

But no less raw for all the years, he thought.

‘What about your son?’

‘He were a good lad,’ she answered, and he noticed the past tense. ‘Looked after things, brought his money home every week. He had a good trade at the smithy. Then he met some wild lads and he fell in with them.’

She shrugged helplessly. He knew the story, he’d heard it more times than he could recall. Drinking, whoring, fighting. . there was nothing new in the world.