At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson Page A

wants.’
    Sedgwick glanced out of the window. ‘With this fog Holden will have problems following Darden. It’s not going to clear today.’
    â€˜I don’t care if he knows we have someone on him. He won’t be doing anything stupid.’ The Constable pushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘I want him to know we’re there.’
    â€˜He’ll go to the mayor, boss.’
    â€˜Let him.’ He rummaged through a small pile of papers on the desk. ‘Do you have anything more on those recruits who vanished?’
    â€˜Bugger all.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I went back again. No one will admit to letting them go and they didn’t leave without help. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere on it.’
    The bell at the Parish Church sounded for noon, the noise deadened by the fog.
    â€˜Come on,’ the Constable said, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan and have dinner. See if the world looks any better with a full belly.’

TEN
    N ottingham walked down Briggate, the chill of the fog seeping through to his bones. His greatcoat felt damp to the touch, tiny drops forming on the wool. In the distance he could hear shouting; he moved faster, following the sounds down towards Swinegate. As he turned the corner the noise grew louder, a babble of voices yelling obscenities and threats. He charged forward, shouldering men aside until he reached the middle of the mob.
    â€˜Stop!’ he shouted, using his stick to push people away. A man was on the ground, curled in on himself, his hat a few yards away, dark wig close to his head. Someone raised his foot to kick and the Constable hit him sharply on the knee. ‘What’s going on here?’ When no one answered, he said, ‘You know who I am. You can give me some answers or spend tonight in the jail.’ He pointed at a fat man wearing a threadbare coat and sweating as if he’d worked half a day ‘You. Tell me.’
    â€˜It’s him,’ he answered, trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s that Gabriel. He killed them children.’
    The Constable glanced down. He knew the man’s face. He was Mr Sorensen, one of three Swedish merchants who’d arrived in Leeds ten years before. They’d set up in business and slowly established themselves, marrying local women and becoming part of the fabric of Leeds.
    â€˜Why would you think that?’
    â€˜Just look at him,’ the fat man answered with a smirk, and a few others nodded and murmured. ‘He’s got a grey coat and breeches and a wig. Listen to him, you can tell by the way he speaks. He dun’t sound right.’
    He moved forward a pace and Nottingham raised the stick as a warning, smelling the heaviness of ale on the man’s breath. He knew all too well how the mood of a mob could shift in an instant. He needed to control them or there’d be more violence.
    He picked out a spindly man with a long face at the front of the crowd. ‘You, what’s your name?’
    Taken aback, the man answered without thinking, ‘Tom, sir.’
    â€˜You think you can attack a man on the street?’ the Constable asked.
    The man looked around the gathered faces and shifted uneasily. ‘We were arresting him,’ he said. ‘To get the reward.’
    Somewhere, Nottingham could hear running feet. But the fog was too thick to see anything or even judge how far away they were.
    â€˜No, you weren’t. If you’d carried on you’d have killed him. Do you want to hang for murder, Tom?’ He said the words evenly and let them have their impact. None of the crowd had moved back. They weren’t willing to listen, the blood lust had risen. The fat man was leering at him, ready to pounce forwards. He balanced the stick, ready to use it, holding it so the silver top would hurt whoever it hit.
    â€˜Right, break this up.’ Two of his men came