Free Constant Lovers by Chris Nickson Page B

hadn’t demanded an arrest, or at least a report every day. But there would be a terse note requesting his presence before the week was out and they were no further along.
    He ran a hand through his hair and walked out into the late afternoon sun. The heat clung to the ground, pressing down like a pall, thick and stifling. Men were wiping their necks and brows with their kerchiefs, and the women looked warm and flustered as they shopped for late bargains, scurrying between patches of shade like insects.
    At Timble Bridge he sat on the bank, deep in the shadow of a willow tree. Sheepscar Beck ran by his feet, the sound of the water over the rocks almost like music. After ten minutes he stood, dusted off his breeches and finished the short journey home up Marsh Lane.
    â€˜Richard? Is that you?’ Mary came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth. Strands of hair had stuck to the sweat on her face. She looked at him with concern. ‘You’re back early. Is anything wrong?’
    â€˜No.’ He smiled gently and embraced her. ‘There was just nothing more I could do today.’
    She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length, not believing his words. After so many years she knew full well that he was married to his work as much as he was to her. And there was always work to be done.
    â€˜Nothing more to do?’ she asked, her voice suspicious. ‘I think that’s the first time in twenty years I’ve heard that from you. What’s the real reason?’
    â€˜I needed to get away,’ he admitted.
    She tucked her head against his shoulder, reaching up to stroke the stubble of his cheek. ‘Is it going badly?’
    â€˜It’s this business in Kirkstall,’ he explained. ‘We just don’t know enough and we can’t seem to find out more.’ He sighed. ‘The real problem is that none of the people live in Leeds. They’re all out in the country. I don’t know them, I don’t understand their lives. I don’t even know what questions to ask.’
    â€˜You’ll find your answers,’ she assured him.
    He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t be so sure. He hadn’t solved every crime put before him. He hadn’t even caught every killer. Those were the ones he remembered, the ones that gnawed and burrowed into his mind. He dreaded that this killing might join that list.
    â€˜Come on,’ he said, the idea coming to him from nowhere. ‘Let’s go up Cavalier Hill.’
    â€˜Richard!’ she complained. ‘I’ve got my old dress on. I don’t want to go out looking like this.’
    She was wearing her old brown muslin, darned and mended over the years, the sleeves pushed up over her elbows.
    â€˜You’ll look just like a Constable’s wife,’ he told her. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’
    â€˜Let me change into the mantua. It’ll only take me a minute.’
    He surrendered with good grace, even though one minute quickly turned to five. When she came down the stairs her hair was under a cap, the blue dress adjusted just so, and the smile on her face made the wait worthwhile.
    It was only a short walk, following a path across a few fields over Steander. At one time these had all been farming strips, so he’d been told, where people planted the crops to feed themselves. Now sheep grazed here, snuffling softly as they cropped at the grass. An empty tenter frame on the grass stood waiting for cloth to be tied and stretched.
    At the base of the hill Nottingham took Mary’s hand, feeling her grip tighten as the slope steepened. He slowed his pace, relishing the fresh air and the small, cool breeze blowing from the west.
    By the time they reached the crown Mary was ready to stop and catch her breath. She sat in the long grass while he stood and gazed down at Leeds. By the river, looking so close he could almost reach out his hand to touch them, stood the dye