Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson Read Free Book Online Page B

lost his job in the Graves warehouse five years earlier. Sitting in the dram shop, spinning out one glass of gin as his eyes craved another, he remembered Graves.
    â€˜A right bastard, he were,’ he said, the froth of bitterness full on his words. ‘I were late five times in a month, that’s all. I told him I was willing to work later to make up for it. My daughter were ill, see, and I’d to look after her since my wife weren’t well. They both died a month back from the cold.’ He swallowed a little more, grimacing at the taste while Sedgwick sat, listening. ‘Anyway, I tried to tell him, but the self-righteous bugger didn’t want to know. Sent me packing.’
    â€˜You still hate him?’ Sedgwick asked.
    Carter looked up, blue eyes lifeless. ‘I’ve lost my family,’ he answered flatly. ‘Of course I hate him. I fucking hate everyone now.’
    â€˜You know someone killed him.’
    â€˜Aye, it’s all over for him, and about bloody time, too.’
    Sedgwick stared at him, an accusation in his eyes.
    â€˜No, it weren’t me.’
    â€˜And can you prove that?’
    â€˜Course I can’t.’ Carter hawked and spat on the stone floor. ‘You can’t prove it were me, neither. If you could, we wouldn’t be here now, you’d have me in the jail.’
    It was true, and Sedgwick acknowledged it. Carter didn’t have the cunning of the killer, and probably not the skill. This man had given up on living. Whoever killed Graves had a force within him, a deep desire that drove him.
    â€˜I might want to talk to you again,’ Sedgwick warned.
    Carter shrugged carelessly.
    â€˜Tha’s found me once. I’m not going anywhere.’
    When he reached the jail, Nottingham and Josh were sharing a jug of ale from the White Swan next door. Sedgwick poured himself a mug and gave his report.
    â€˜So there are seven we still need to talk to,’ the Constable mused. ‘You two can work on that tomorrow, you know what to do. I’ll find out about the ones who were convicted.’
    He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Go home, the pair of you. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’
    Alone, he drained the cup. The evening outside was loud with the sound of voices, carts, and horses. He wanted the peace of silence. He wanted to be somewhere the thoughts didn’t crowd him, where all this vanished and he could feel free.
    Terrible as it was, he knew this murder was what he needed. It was forcing him out of himself, pushing him away from the darkness that had consumed him since Rose died.
    Nottingham looked at the names of the two convicted men scrawled in his notebook. Had he given evidence at both their trials? He couldn’t recall. But he’d testified so many times, against so many men, that it was impossible to bring many details to mind.
    Elias Wainwright had been found guilty of stealing cloth from the factory. It was just scraps and offcuts that would have been thrown away anyway. But he’d taken them without permission, and that was a crime. He’d almost certainly have been released long ago.
    Abraham Wyatt had been more calculating, he remembered that much. A clerk, he’d been clever enough to embezzle from Graves, and it was sheer accident that he’d been caught. Everyone expected him to hang, but he’d pleaded benefit of clergy and instead he’d been transported, given seven years in the Indies, something many considered worse than the noose. Death out there came slow, he’d heard, from heat and sickness. Few ever came back. Not many lasted a single year, let alone seven.
    He banked the fire and blew out the candle, locking the heavy door behind him as he left. A thin wind funnelled down the street and he pushed the collar of his greatcoat close around his neck. Kirkgate was quieter now, the people gone to their houses, trying to keep the winter at bay for another night