Nottingham dared not think of Worthy or of Sedgwick. He had to keep his mind on his quarry, to go faster, to catch him. When that was done could he go back. He’d help where he could and count the cost where it was too late.
Nottingham was panting hard, feet pounding on the soaking ground. His lungs burned, mouth open wide as he gulped in air. Ahead, Wyatt slid, put out a hand to steady himself and dropped his knife. But he kept moving, never glancing behind.
He was close enough to hear Wyatt straining, his breathing loud and pained. Neither of them could run much further. Wyatt stumbled again, and Nottingham drew even closer, pushed himself harder. He wiped the rain from his face.
He was the huntsman. He had weapons.
His foot slid wide on the slippery ground and before he could save himself he was sprawling face down in the mud. He pulled himself up quickly, his lungs hot as fire. Wyatt had gone.
He felt the panic start to rise. It was impossible.
He was by the pumping engine, just below the bridge. Normally it would be pushing water from the Aire up to the reservoir by St John’s Church, but it was closed now because of the flood. The building stood tall, its small windows set like eyes high in the wall. With careful footsteps the Constable walked to the door. It was unlocked.
Nottingham eased his way in, and immediately the full stench of death caught in his throat, making him retch. It was inescapable. All around the room, stacked across the floor like forgotten wood, were awkward bundles of white: corpses laid out in their winding sheets.
This was one of the places the city had used to store its winter dead, a place to leave them until the ground was soft enough for burying. Now, as the thaw took hold, they were putrefying, and the charnel house smell was like the opened gates of hell.
Wyatt lay among them, a dark shape, and the only one moving. Outside the river raged. In here there was only the rank stillness of death. The Constable moved closer, the knife tight in his hand.
‘You’ve been lucky twice now, Constable.’ Wyatt’s voice was ragged and breathless, with an edge of desperation. ‘I fell over a corpse.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I twisted something. I can’t get up.’
‘Everyone needs luck,’ Nottingham told him. ‘You’ve had your share. But luck runs out.’
For the first time he could see Wyatt’s full face. The man had thin hair, barely enough to cover his scalp, plastered against his head by the water. His skin was the colour of aged wood, the price of so many years of sun. The T branded on his cheek was bright and loud.
Wyatt gingerly touched his ankle. ‘Fuck, that hurts.’
The Constable simply stared, wondering how many times Wyatt’s victims had complained and screamed from their pain before he killed them and took their skin. He was tempted to kick the ankle to see if it made him yell, so he could experience a tiny portion of the agony he’d inflicted. Instead he kept his distance, wary of a ruse and any weapons the man might have.
‘Get up,’ he ordered.
‘I can’t.’ Wyatt shouted the words, his face contorted.
‘Then you’re going to have to crawl.’
Wyatt tried to roll over, letting out a sharp moan as his foot touched the ground. It was convincing, but the Constable stayed back.
‘I don’t care how you do it, but you’re going to move,’ he said sharply. Slow drips of rain fell from the tip of his dagger. He’d recovered from the chase and breathed normally again. He kept his gaze fixed on Wyatt.
He should kill the man right here, slice his throat open, just the way Wyatt had done with Graves and Rushworth. Kill him and send him down the river. Wyatt had to be erased from history, as surely as if he’d never come back to Leeds.
The man extended his arm as if he was going to pull himself along, fingers curling to prepare for the effort. Wyatt’s eyes flashed with pain, then his arm whipped out towards Nottingham’s leg.
The Constable stepped back neatly, leaving Wyatt clutching at air.
‘Get up,’ he said again.
‘Not going to kill me?’ Wyatt’s voice was a sly taunt. ‘Maybe your shoulder still hurts too much? Or do you want the trophy?’
‘You’ll die. I can guarantee that.’
The man looked up with the furtive gaze of an animal. ‘I’m used to it. I was dead inside from the time the ship left until it returned. Then I came alive again. A resurrected man, Constable.’ He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘Dying again doesn’t scare me. I could slide out of here and into the river.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘Because I’d rather make you kill me.’ He moved slightly and twisted his mouth at the pain. ‘But you won’t. Not in cold blood.’
Nottingham said nothing. The man was right. He relished the idea, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this. He heard a noise and half-turned, watching Wyatt from the corner of his eye.
Sedgwick and Worthy stood in the doorway. The pimp’s thigh was coarsely bandaged, an old piece of grimy cloth wound tightly around it. He was limping heavily, using his stick and dragging his boot as he hobbled. He seemed aged, suddenly vulnerable, his large body bent and deflated. The creases and folds of his face were deeper and rougher, showing the old man he usually hid so well.
At least Sedgwick looked unhurt. His eyes were fixed on Wyatt, burning with hatred.
‘So you got the bastard,’ Worthy said. He might have looked smaller but his voice still had power, and the anger flowed in his words.
‘He’s too scared to kill me,’ Wyatt taunted. ‘He’s a man of principle, is Mr Nottingham.’
‘But I’m not, laddie.’ Worthy pronounced the words flatly, as if it was a perfectly understood fact of life. He reached under his greatcoat and pulled a long knife from its sheath on his belt. ‘You stabbed me. I’m not going to let anyone do that and get away with it.’
‘There’s always a price, isn’t there?’ Wyatt sounded fatalistic, almost content at having been given a final sentence.
‘Aye, there is.’ Worthy spoke softly. ‘And it has to be paid in full.’
Nottingham stood and watched. He knew Worthy too well. The man had announced he’d kill, so Wyatt would die. And Nottingham would do nothing to prevent it. All he felt now was relief that he wouldn’t have to complete the task himself.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Worthy asked.
‘No.’ Wyatt shook his head, eyes moving between the three men standing above him. Sedgwick hung back, uneasy, but the Constable ignored the glances he gave.
‘You’re not with them, that’s for certain.’ Wyatt moved his leg and gritted his teeth.
‘A man ought to know who’s killing him,’ the pimp told him. ‘I’m Amos Worthy. That name mean anything?’
‘Nothing. Should it?’
‘Sam Graves was a friend of mine. I admired him.’
‘You never worked for him, then.’
‘That’s as mebbe.’ Worthy cut off the interruption. ‘But he helped me when none of the other sods in this place would.’
‘Good for you.’ Wyatt raised his head then hawked and spat. ‘He destroyed my life.’
‘The way I’ve heard it, you were caught stealing from him. So don’t tell me you didn’t have it coming. And you didn’t just kill him, laddie, you desecrated him.’
Wyatt didn’t respond.
‘A real man wouldn’t need to do that,’ Worthy said with venom. As the anger rose in him he stood more erect and seemed to grow younger, chest jutting out menacingly.
‘Boss. .’ Sedgwick said, but Nottingham waved him to silence.
Wyatt looked up at the Constable. ‘Charlotte?’ he asked.
Nottingham shook his head. She’d disappear too, so there was no lingering vestige of what had happened. The Mayor would have a discreet word with Graves’s widow, and there was no one to care about Rushworth.
‘You’d better kill me, then,’ Wyatt said with finality.
‘Think you deserve a quick, easy death, do you, laddie?’