had iced deep over the inside of the windows.
He unlocked the door, smiling as Lizzie held a finger to her lips, her eyes turning to James under his blanket.
‘Hello, love,’ he whispered as he held her, her face warm against his damp cheek. Some said he’d been mad to take on a girl who’d been a prostitute, but he had no regrets. It was love of a fashion, and she’d already proved herself to be a better mother to James than Annie had ever been.
She busied herself, cutting cheese and bread, pouring ale, and putting it on the table ready for him.
‘Another late night,’ she said, but without any touch of the criticism that had always sharpened Annie’s tone.
He took a deep drink, feeling his body begin to relax.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘A lot of people to talk to. Looks like the murderer has snatched his next victim.’
Lizzie shuddered and gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
‘No trace?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. He’s just vanished. This murderer’s a clever bastard.’ Sedgwick shook his head in a mix of sadness and admiration before changing the subject. ‘How’s James been?’
‘Good as gold.’ Lizzie beamed. ‘I took him down by the river earlier, over the bridge. I held him up so he could look down at the water.’ She paused. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘He called me mam,’ she announced proudly.
He took her hand, stroking the skin lightly.
‘Does he ask for Annie any more?’
‘Not in a fortnight now, John. He seems happy.’
And why wouldn’t he be? Sedgwick wondered. Lizzie treated the boy like her own. She talked to him, played games with him, took him out.
She leaned across the table and kissed him as he ate. The gesture took him by surprise, but she was forever doing daft things like that, holding him, kissing him. At first the affection had astonished him; now he liked it.
‘I love you, John Sedgwick,’ she said softly.
Who cared what she’d been, he thought. She was a good lass even then, friendly and always ready to laugh. The six months they’d been living together had been joy. They’d made him realize how ground down he’d become with Annie, how their marriage had been ultimately as fragile as gossamer. She’d hated his job and vanished for something she believed was better, a life as a soldier’s woman. He wished the man luck with her; he’d need it.
As soon as she’d heard the news, Lizzie had knocked at his door. He was amazed that she knew where he lived.
‘She’s gone, then?’ she’d asked bluntly.
‘Aye,’ he admitted. The truth was that he was relieved when Annie left; he had his son, but he was uncertain and fearful for the future.
‘Who’s going to look after the little lad?’
With that she’d become part of his life, spending her days with James, her nights with Sedgwick. Within a week she’d brought over her possessions, two worn, faded dresses and a few small things. A month later, they’d moved to this new room, warmer and airier, just before winter began to exert its grip. A new start, he said, fresh surroundings and no memories.
‘Tired?’ she asked, jarring him out of his thoughts.
Sedgwick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Long past tired.’
‘You get to bed. I’ll blow out the candles,’ she ordered tenderly.
In the dark he stared at the ceiling. The bed was cosy, and his arm slid around her.
‘Do you ever think of going back?’ he asked her.
‘To what?’ she answered sleepily.
‘To what you used to do.’
That was his fear, that she’d grow tired of this domesticity and leave him. Leave James. Leave a hole in their lives.
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.
