Cold Cruel Winter Read Online Free PDF Page A

someone like him.’
    â€˜I don’t like it either,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But much more than that, I don’t like what happened to him after.’
    He described the skinning, the length of time the killer had kept the corpse, watching as the Mayor blanched before he concluded, ‘We can’t let word get out. You understand, I’m sure.’
    Kenion nodded his agreement slowly. ‘I’ll talk to his widow and the undertaker. But it sounds as if we have a madman here.’
    â€˜Mad possibly, but not a madman,’ Nottingham countered thoughtfully.
    The Mayor looked at him quizzically.
    â€˜This wasn’t a random murder. It’s too deliberate, too calculated.’
    â€˜I don’t care if he’s rabid or as sane as me. Whatever he is, you’d better find him fast,’ Kenion ordered, his face hard, as if Nottingham would do anything else. ‘With some luck, we can keep this one fairly quiet. There’ll be rumours, of course, but if I hear more than that . . .’
    He let the words trail off. They didn’t need to be spoken. Nottingham stood. He’d achieved what he wanted; the Mayor would do all he could to ensure the skinning was kept quiet. The rest, as always, was up to him and his men.
    He’d never been there, but he knew where Graves had his warehouse, just as he knew where most things were in Leeds. He’d scavenged its streets so often when he was young, finding places to hide and live, little refuges and sanctuaries of hope for a few days, that he knew the city intimately, like a lover. Grown, he patrolled them, and learned the city’s deeper secrets and shame.
    The warehouse was one of the buildings by the river, downstream from Leeds Bridge. The stone was just beginning to wear, darkened by soot and rain, the main door painted a deep, forbidding black. He walked in, entering the office, where three clerks sat working at their high desks. They looked up together as his heels clopped on the flagstone floor.
    â€˜I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable.’
    Like brothers used to each other but not to outsiders, the men glanced between themselves before one dared clear his throat and ask, ‘How can I help you, sir?’
    â€˜Have you heard about Mr Graves?’ he asked.
    The man stared blankly, while the others looked confused.
    â€˜He’s in London, sir, he left on Friday,’ the man responded with an uneasy smile. ‘He’ll be back next week.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, but he won’t,’ Nottingham told them, watching their faces as the words captured their attention. ‘Mr Graves was found dead yesterday here in Leeds. Someone killed him.’
    There was a low stir of voices between the men.
    â€˜I need to know about his plans, and about the business,’ Nottingham interrupted them.
    The man who’d answered him was somewhere in middle age, his back bent from years of writing, his fingers permanently stained with the deep blue-black of ink. He cleared his throat softly.
    â€˜This is one of the biggest warehouses in Leeds,’ he said with pride, as if he owned it himself. ‘We export cloth all over, to Spain, Italy, the Low Countries, sir. We’re always busy. Mr Graves said he was going to London to discuss a contract there.’
    His eyes were cast down slightly, not cowed, but trained by a lifetime of deference to those who’d always have more than him.
    â€˜I thought he’d retired.’
    The man smiled wanly and shook his head. ‘He tried, sir. He really tried. It lasted about three months. But Mr Graves wasn’t a man who could take his ease too well. He’d planned on selling the business, but then he decided to keep going himself. He needed it, he said.’
    â€˜How are your order books?’ Nottingham asked.
    â€˜Full, sir, they’re always full.’
    â€˜And how long have you three worked here?’
    â€˜I’ve