Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

She laughed gently, a sound that moved him more than any words.

‘You’re a daft beggar, you are. I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you. I’d have taken you away from her if I could. Does that tell you owt?’

‘Aye.’ He drifted away, a smile on his lips.

Nottingham was at the jail well before light. He’d heard the dawn chorus as he walked down Marsh Lane and over Timble Bridge, but it had brought him no pleasure. Holding Mary had soothed his soul a little, but once she was asleep his thoughts had begun to whirl uncontrollably.

All his life he had been a fighter. There had been times when that fight — finding enough food or a safe place to sleep — had meant the difference between life and death, and that had given him the desire never to lose. It was one of the qualities that made him perfect for this job.

Knowing that Wyatt had snatched a victim from under the nose of one of his men made him burn. He would not be outthought and outwitted by a killer, by a madman who saw death and defilement as apt revenge for the crime he’d been the one to commit.

He paused at the head of the ginnel, where the shadows slipped away from Kirkgate and the darkness seemed briefly absolute. Leeds wasn’t that large, maybe seven thousand people. Wyatt was in it somewhere. Someone had seen him, someone sold him food, someone had rented him. . what could he have rented?

Not a room, that much was certain. He couldn’t have tortured, killed and skinned there. He needed somewhere larger, somewhere private. That narrowed it down a little. A house perhaps, or a workshop. He unlocked the door of the jail, glancing in the cells for anyone brought in by the night men. Just a pair of beggars, by the look of them, glad of a rest indoors for once, burrowed under their blankets and quiet to the world.

He put coal on the fire that had been banked for the night, and stirred the embers, watching the flames dazzle and heat seep into the room before taking off his heavy coat and pushing back his fringe.

For the first time since Rose’s death he had hope in his heart. Inch by inch he and Mary were drawing closer again, beginning to emerge from the fog. It was painful and there was still so far to go, but they’d made their start.

He wouldn’t allow Wyatt to crush that. He’d find him and mete out justice. That was his job. There would be no trial where details of the killing could emerge, nothing to tarnish the reputation of Leeds, so carefully tended and burnished, nothing that could affect the heartbeat of trade. He’d had to do this before, always reluctantly, and he had no doubt he’d have to do it again. The instances had been rare, but in every case he’d had no regrets.

He sat at his desk, a jumble of papers stacked before him. He knew he needed to take up Worthy’s offer. It meant more manpower, more information. But what, he wondered, really lay behind it? He’d known the procurer far too long to take what he said at face value. Worthy was a man with his own reasons for things, his own brand of evil.

The door opened and Sedgwick ambled in, his eyes morning bright, his hair a tangle.

‘Anything last night?’ Nottingham asked him.

‘No.’ The deputy gave him the short answer. ‘We searched almost everything, but there was bugger all to offer a clue. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘We need to find him before he kills Rushworth.’ He didn’t need to mention what would happen after Rushworth was dead. That knowledge hung between them like a dark promise.

‘How?’

‘Wyatt has to have space for what he does. And privacy.’ He paused to allow the idea to sink in, waiting until Sedgwick began to nod his understanding.

‘Makes sense,’ he agreed. ‘Somewhere with some isolation.’

‘Start looking around today,’ Nottingham ordered. ‘He needs to eat and drink, too. He’s buying things somewhere. Get Josh out asking around the shops and the traders.’

‘I will.’

The Constable looked up at Sedgwick. ‘Someone was talking to me about Graves’s murder last night. He knew what had happened after.’

The deputy raised his eyebrows. ‘It wasn’t from me,’ he said defensively.

Nottingham waved the idea away with his hand. ‘I didn’t think it was. Or from Josh. It was Amos Worthy who stopped me.’

‘Oh aye? What’s all this to do with him, then? I was hoping the winter might have claimed him.’

‘He says Graves was good to him long ago.’ He’d never explained to the deputy that his mother and Worthy had been lovers once; it was a history he needed to keep private.

‘And?’

‘And he wants to help us catch the murderer.’

Sedgwick glanced out of the barred window at people moving along Kirkgate, the sounds of the morning rising.

‘I’d be wondering what’s in it for him.’

‘That was my first thought, too,’ Nottingham agreed quietly.

‘I’ve never seen him do owt that didn’t benefit him or his purse.’

‘Hard to believe, but I think he might be sincere this time. I can’t see any way he can use this to his advantage. And the more people we have looking, the sooner we’ll catch Wyatt. Agreed?’

‘Maybe,’ Sedgwick conceded cautiously.

‘People will say things to Worthy’s men they wouldn’t say to us.’

‘Rather than face a beating, you mean?’

‘Not always, John.’

He waited as Sedgwick considered.

‘You’re going to use him, aren’t you?’

‘If Rushworth hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have,’ Nottingham replied reasonably. ‘It’s urgent now. And we’ve got sod all so far. You know that.’

The deputy let out a loud, slow breath.

‘Aye, that’s true.’

‘So we’ve got nothing to lose.’

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to justify the decision to himself or to the deputy.

‘If we can save Rushworth,’ Sedgwick warned. ‘It might already be too late. And what about the Mayor? Or the Corporation?’

‘We don’t tell them.’ His eyes flashed for a moment. ‘They only ask that I do my job, not how I do it.’

‘It’s dangerous, boss.’

The Constable nodded slowly. He knew that well enough. He just had to make sure he kept control of everything.

‘I’ll be back in a while.’

His coat warm around him, Nottingham walked through the drizzle down Briggate. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, of Rushworth, of Worthy, of Graves, of Mary, of Rose.

Just before the bridge he turned on to Swinegate. With the thaw there was plenty of life on the street, the squall of families, shopkeepers setting out their wares, the powerful smell of horseshit from an ostler’s yard, the heady scent of malt from an innkeeper’s brewing.

He pushed open a nondescript door. It was never locked; there was no man in the city mad enough to try to steal from this place. An ageless crone sat in a room off the corridor, a mug of gin balanced on her lap, her eyes a thousand miles away.

He walked through to the kitchen. The windows were dirty, probably never cleaned, and a scattering of crusted dishes stood in the corners. Worthy was there, in his usual spot, standing by the table in the same coat and breeches as the day before, an empty plate on the table before him with a jug of small beer and cups. Two of his men, both young, large and imposing, idled in the corner, hands going for daggers as soon as they saw the Constable. The pimp raised his hand to stop them.

‘It’s all right, lads. You can go. I was expecting Mr Nottingham.’

The men sidled out, giving the Constable wary, suspicious looks.

‘Were you?’

‘Was I what, laddie?’ Worthy sat back in his chair, exploring his teeth with a sliver of wood.

‘Expecting me?’

The pimp gave an easy grin. ‘Aye, I was. You’re not a fool. You know you need help but you’ve wondered why I offered my services.’ He tossed the wood aside and wiped his hands on his old, greasy waistcoat. He might well be one of the richest men in the city, Nottingham thought, but he never spent a penny he didn’t have to on himself or his surroundings.