Read Online Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson - Free Book Online

self-sufficiency is vital, it is important to be able to turn a hand to everything. So, among many other duties, I was taught how to skin a beast and to cure the hide. The technique is not especially hard, and even the act of skinning is not particularly complex, once one learns how to do it properly. For what it is worth, the real art is in peeling the flesh away evenly, and I had an old, excellent teacher with some long-held tricks and a very sharp knife.
    The difficulty here was in curing the skin. Ideally it should have had at least a week longer, but I confess I was eager to share my triumph.
    But no doubt you are mystified as to exactly what I mean. Why would I cure the flesh as if Graves was no better than a common beast?
    The answer is, quite literally, in your hands.
    Take a look at the cover of this small volume, Constable. If it seems like good quality leather, that’s a testament to my meagre skill. It seems very apt, somehow, to have the description of the death of Samuel Graves wrapped in his own skin.
    Nottingham stood up quickly and the book fell to the floor. His mouth filled with bile, and for a few short moments he struggled for breath, certain that he’d vomit, the room swimming in front of him.
    Jesus. He held on to the desk, eyes closed, the sweat cooling rapidly, chilling on his skin, as he tried to steady his lurching stomach. The relish which the murderer – Wyatt, it had to be Wyatt – took in all this went beyond any belief. In his job he’d dealt with madmen before but none who came close to this. This was evil. He’d read the words, but he couldn’t begin to understand the mind behind them.
    He glanced down, seeing the book on the flagstones. To know he’d touched it, laid his hands on a dead man’s flesh, made him shudder, and once again he tasted the sickness in his throat and forced it back down. He’d have to pick it up, to read what remained, and then comb through it all again and again for any hints it might offer.
    Those would be precious few, he was certain. Wyatt might be moonmad, but he was cunning as Reynard, one who’d hide his tracks well. He’d planned carefully, and he had luck on his side. And that, Nottingham knew from experience, could be a dangerous combination.
    Gingerly he sat again, reaching for the volume but loath to touch it and feel death on his fingertips. Very cautiously, hands pressing on the paper, not the binding, he read on:
    Have I horrified you? Have I revolted you? I trust I have. After all, what I have done is inhuman, is it not?
    You will recall that I wrote that this book will extend to four volumes. When they are all done, my revenge will be complete. If you are a clever man, and I trust you are to have your position, you may already have deduced who I am. That is of no import. Think of me merely as an instrument of retribution. Three more volumes will mean three more victims. What should concern you are their identities. Who are they, and how can you keep them safe? Even if you know who they might be, how do you dare to tell them the truth without causing a panic?
    And now I’ve presented you with a challenge, Constable. When my mission is complete I shall leave Leeds, and if that happens, you will never be able to catch me. So now you have it. You need to find me, to stop me. I don’t believe you can. I have had a long, long time to plan this, what felt like lifetimes, and all you can do is try to keep up with me. Forgive me if I do not say that I wish you well.
    He sat back, staring at the book, lost in thought. Time passed, he had no idea how long. The door banged open and Sedgwick ambled in, frowning, snapping the Constable back to the present.
    â€˜John,’ Nottingham said quietly, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan. I need a drink, and believe me, you’re going to, as well.’ He slid the book into the desk drawer, picked up his coat and walked out into the cloudy, suddenly