Free Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson Page B

Josh?’ Nottingham asked gently.
    The boy looked at the Constable, eyes guileless, startled by the question. ‘Fine, boss. Why?’
    â€˜I just wondered. You’ve been quiet these last few weeks.’
    Forrester shrugged, then slid out through the door. Concern hadn’t worked, Nottingham thought. He wrote a note for Sedgwick, telling him to organize men to follow Ralph Rushworth, the clerk from Graves’s warehouse who’d given damning evidence at Wyatt’s trial.
    He smiled. Things were changing. They were taking action.

Nine
    Walking home at dusk, Nottingham’s steps faltered as he reached the Parish Church. He slipped quietly through the lych gate and crossed the ground to Rose’s grave. A little slush remained, but most of the snow had melted into the earth leaving it boggy and clinging, sucking softly at his boots. He hadn’t been here for a week; his time had been taken up with the murder. He felt ashamed for ignoring his daughter.
    In time, once the earth had fully settled, he’d pay for a headstone. For now, there was only a sinking mound and memories to show that she’d ever lived. He stood, head bowed, scenes from the past twenty years slipping through his mind. Rose as a baby, as an infant toddling on unsteady legs, as a girl with the sun on her hair, playing by the river. Rose on her wedding day, eyes turned in adoration to her husband . . . Rose in her final illness, face wan, eyes lost to the world in her fever.
    He hadn’t been able to save her, and that guilt bit painfully into his soul. He could catch murderers, but he couldn’t keep death from his own daughter, his little girl. He’d failed her, and he’d failed Mary and Emily, too. It was a pact, unspoken, unwritten, but always understood – he was the man, he’d keep them all safe. But he hadn’t managed in his duty.
    He wanted to believe in God and the life eternal, that Rose was in heaven. But belief was near impossible when you were empty. He silently mouthed prayers for her that came from years of church services . . . shelter her soul in the shadow of Thy wings, make known to her the path of life . He hoped they’d bring him a little peace, a communion with her. Instead all he could feel was a thin tear burning down his cheek. Slowly he wiped it away, then stood for a few more minutes until the damp chill roused him.
    At the gate he turned right, heading for Timble Bridge and home. He wasn’t sure he felt comforted by his visit, but it was something he’d needed to do. Not for Rose, but for himself.
    After a few yards he paused.
    â€˜Are you going to show yourself?’ he asked loudly before turning.
    â€˜I was wondering how long it would take you, laddie.’ A bulky man detached himself from the shadows to stand beside the Constable.
    â€˜So what brings you here, Amos?’
    Nottingham had an uneasy relationship with Amos Worthy. The older man was a procurer and pimp, the most successful in Leeds, though he didn’t display it in dressy finery. For years the Constable had loathed him and tried to prosecute him, always without success, for Worthy had powerful friends on the Corporation.
    Then, the previous year, in the wake of a murder, Nottingham had learned that Worthy had once been his mother’s lover. It had come as a disturbing revelation, one that left him even more wary of the man.
    â€˜I was sorry to hear about your lass.’
    The Constable gave a small grunt, unsure how to reply. He knew the man hadn’t followed him just to give his condolences. He said nothing, waiting for more.
    â€˜There’s a lot of talk going round about old Sam Graves,’ Worthy continued. Even speaking softly, his voice filled the street.
    â€˜There’s always talk,’ Nottingham replied blandly.
    â€˜You’ve not caught the killer.’
    â€˜No,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s common