by Steve Wilson
“As it happens,” I replied, “I do know a lot about baseball. More than a lot, in fact. I might not have attended a game live, but I used to stay up until four a.m. on a Monday morning watching the televised games, even when I had work the next day. I know more than Gail does, it appears.”
“Why? What do you mean?” asked Debbie.
“I don’t want to be unkind, but she made a few basic errors. She knew where they play but she got the name of her team wrong. It’s the White Sox in Chicago. The Red Sox are from Boston. It’s as if she’s swotted up on the subject but doesn’t know it intimately. Similar with the airports she was talking about. If she was flying to Stockholm, she’d most likely use Arlanda. There are several other airports that serve the city, but Landvetter isn’t one of them — that’s the main airport for Gothenburg.
“Okay,” said Trish, “let’s get this right. You’re saying that Gail has been getting basic facts mixed up, over both airports and sport. But why would she do that?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t.”
“No,” said Debbie, “neither do I. Perhaps she just got confused?”
“Or maybe she’s just trying too hard to impress us and tell us what she thought we wanted to hear?” added Trish.
“Could be,” I said. “If so, though, she didn’t say what I wanted to hear. I was interested in learning something about Gail herself, but I don’t think I know any more about her now than I did before. I don’t mean I wanted to know her complete life story, but a potted history would have been nice.”
“Come to think of it, Gail’s story did sound a little like she was reciting some facts that she’d learnt parrot-fashion. You know, a bit like used to happen at school, when you’d have to recite, say, the periodical table. I knew the symbols and elements, but that didn’t mean I knew anything about chemistry.”
“Yes, but, unlike school, it sounds as if Gail learnt the wrong facts,” said Debbie.
As it was getting late we decided to call it a night. “Next week, though,” said Trish as we were leaving, “let’s all of us tell our ‘potted histories’, as that’s clearly what Ethan wants to hear.”
“I will — on condition that Ethan tells us his tale as well,” insisted Debbie.
“If I must,” I added. “It will make for a long night, especially if we can persuade Gail and Emma to join us as well.”
We said our goodnights and went our separate ways home, with the prevailing thought in my head being that I had a date — of sorts — after class next week.
Chapter Five
Amber — Friday 7th October 2011
She carefully applied the foundation to her cheeks, laying it on thickly to try and mask the discolouration; the last thing she needed now was for somebody to notice the change. She was almost certain that nobody had, so far, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
For some strange reason, it was always the left side of her face that showed the signs first, so she applied an extra layer there. She tutted as she saw a couple of wrinkles, but quickly set about masking their appearance as well.
Finally, she looked at her reflection in the mirror; she spent a lot of time looking in mirrors these days. There was barely any resemblance to the woman who had stood in Alan Ingleby’s bathroom eleven years earlier; Amber clearly was no more.
The mark was barely visible; it would pass inspection as long as nobody came too close. Not to worry, there were still a few days before she’d be back in that environment, and she knew from previous experience that in these early days any blotches often disappeared overnight. And if it was still there on Tuesday evening — well, it wasn’t that unusual to have a little bruising, was it? She could always come up with a believable explanation for how it happened. Why, it might even gain her a sympathetic ear; it might make her task that little bit easier.
The others had accepted her story without batting an eyelid. Her duplicity came easily with experience. Men, especially, never thought to question her. Despite her initial misgivings, this was turning out to be quite straightforward. More than three weeks had passed already. She only had to live the lie for another seven and a half. And, if things became awkward, she could always take a break. There was nothing that said she had to spend time with them in between, only that she had to be there at the start and at the finish. She considered whether it might be wise to drop out of sight for a few weeks.
Less than two months, and it will all be over. Then I can start to live. She took one more look in the mirror and nodded. You could barely see it now. It would pass. Satisfied, she turned from the mirror and picked up her things, ready to go back into the outside world.
Chapter Six
Week 4 — Rochdale — Shooting
Tuesday 11th October 2011
As it seemed possible that the Tuesday night sessions were going to focus on a different case every week, without bringing each preceding one to a satisfactory conclusion, I decided that this time I would do some research of my own. The following day, I went to the reference library in Blackpool and spent a few hours trying to find out anything I could about the two murders we had discussed. I soon realised that it would have been easier to look for the tiniest needle in the largest haystack.
I looked at plenty of books in the local history section, but neither of these cases warranted a mention. After several fruitless hours, a kind librarian offered to help, as she had noticed my growing exasperation. She suggested I try looking on the library computers, and when I explained that I didn’t really know how to use them she helped me search for information about Enid Rodgers, Eve Rhodes, Len Phillips or Bea Ashmere. The search turned up a very basic entry about the death of Enid Rodgers and an even smaller piece that mentioned Len Phillips. Neither of the articles provided any new information, and there wasn’t a single reference to either Rhodes or Ashmere. I began to wonder how Louise had managed to find out so much about each case, but then realised that she had doubtless spent much longer than a day in the reference section during her investigations.
I left the library feeling a little downhearted, knowing that — if anybody — Louise was the one person who could fill in the missing blanks.
***
Trish collared me as I walked into college for the start of the fourth week of the course. “Guess who I saw last Friday night,” she began.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m hopeless at guessing games.”
“Spoilsport,” she pouted. “All right, then, I’ll just have to tell you. Oh, wait, here’s Debbie. I might as well tell you both at once. Hi, Debbie. I was just going to tell Ethan who I saw on Friday night, in McDonald’s.”
“Go on, then, tell,” she replied.
“Gail and her husband.”
“What’s so unusual about that?” I asked. “She told us he was only going to be away for a few days. He was probably back from his management meeting by Friday.”
“Management? Her husband clears away the leftovers. The only management he’s involved with is managing to keep the tables clean. I was at the next table, but she had her back to me and didn’t know I was watching — and listening. I walked past Gail’s table when she went to get a paper napkin, and I spotted her bus pass lying next to her plate. She told us she was fifty-two, remember, and she has a pensioner’s bus pass. Oh, and her name’s Smith, not Smythe. It looks like you were right, Ethan, she’s all fur coat and no knickers.”
“Are you certain she didn’t see you there?”
“No, at least I don’t think…shush, she’s coming. Hi, Gail, nice to see you.”
Gail looked at the three of us and seemed a little puzzled at the way we were looking at her, but before she had a chance to say more Louise entered the room, followed closely by Emma; after the way she had left so abruptly the week before, I hadn’t been sure if Emma would come back. She took a seat slightly away from the table, so she was able to see all of us clearly but we needed to make a conscious effort to turn to address her. Perhaps her body language w
as saying, I’m here, but don’t any of you try and engage me in the conversation. I gave a mental shrug and turned my full attention on Louise.
“Hello all,” she began. “Have you had a good week? Are you ready for the next instalment on our historical journey?”
“Before we start,” I said, “I went to the library in Blackpool this week to see if I could find out anything about either murder. I found practically nothing. How did you manage to get so many details?”
“I’m glad that the course has stimulated your interest so much. I hoped it would for all of you. All I’ll say, though, is that it has taken me years of research to get this far. I did use libraries — much of my work took place in the pre-Internet days — but you have to be selective in where you go. If you want information about something that happened in Manchester, for example, then the best source is the local newspapers from that area, and you generally only find them in libraries in Manchester. So it doesn’t surprise me that the Blackpool library had no such details. Remember, the cases I’m talking about aren’t the high-profile ones that everybody has heard of. In general, they concern ordinary people and seemingly ordinary circumstances.”
I felt a little deflated. I was keen to know more, but I hadn’t gone about it in the correct way – and, even if I had, how could I have expected to find out something that Louise had missed when this had been her life’s work? Rather than Poirot to the rescue, I now realised I was the much less effective Hastings.
Louise smiled at me, as if she had read my thoughts, and continued. “All right, then, let’s press on. Tonight, I want to look at another case, the shooting of Harold Scott in Rochdale in 1933 — and yes, that’s Rochdale as in Greater Manchester Rochdale according to the modern metropolitan boundaries.”
“I wasn’t going to mention that,” I said, “but just wanted to clarify. Is Len Phillips the same as Enid Rodgers now, all dead and buried — and I wasn’t trying to make a joke there?”
“Yes, Ethan. You’re in possession of all the available facts, so there’s not much more to say. Other than bear everything you’ve heard in mind, and try to look at the whole picture rather than thinking of them as individual isolated episodes.”
“I’m still unsure where this is all heading,” said Debbie. “Is there really nothing else that we can talk about during class?”
“No, there really isn’t. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, these cases have already given you quite an insight into Lancashire life at the time, and I hope to expand on that over the coming weeks. Now, shall I begin?”
“Go on, Louise,” said Trish. “You know we all want to hear about it. Debbie’s only pulling your leg.”
“Right, then. As I said, the subject matter for tonight is the shooting of Mr Harold Scott in Rochdale on Friday ninth June 1933 — yes, Ethan, another Friday killing. And another where we have the facts but not, in my opinion, a satisfactory conclusion. Harold was a barge owner and had traversed the canals for years. He was seventy-two years in age, but had grown up at a time when the Rochdale Canal was regularly used to transport goods — such as cotton, wool, coal, limestone, timber and salt — to and from Lancashire and Yorkshire. However, as the twentieth century wore on, this mode of transport became less and less profitable, and the volume of traffic dwindled significantly.
“Nevertheless, Harold remained on the water, and lived in his barge even when it was no longer hired to carry goods. The Rochdale Captain was a regular sight as it traversed the canal’s length, from Castlefield in Manchester across to Sowerby Bridge.”
“Doesn’t that route go close to where Enid Rodgers lived?”
“Yes, it does, Ethan, around the conjunction of the rivers Irwell and Irk. That isn’t where the murder happened, though, as it was definitely in Rochdale, but it does provide a curious link. Well, I find it curious, even if nobody else does. Anyway, as I was saying, Harold regularly travelled the canal, and he liked to take passengers along with him as well. Female passengers. He might have been in his seventies, but he still enjoyed the company of the opposite sex.”
“Then there’s hope for me still,” muttered Trish. Then, embarrassedly, she realised that her whisper had been heard by all. “Sorry,” she added, head down to try and hide her blushes. Debbie looked across at her, a strange look on her face, and I wondered if she found Trish’s off-the-cuff remark slightly distasteful.
I looked round quickly; Gail looked as if she hadn’t heard the comment, although I was sure she must have done, and Emma was staring at Gail. I wondered what that was all about.
Louise just smiled. “Harold had a long list of female passengers, although only ever one at a time. He usually stayed with each one for around three to six months, and he was well known for his appetites, shall we say. His latest companion was a lady called Rose Ember. We know that about her, but I’m afraid we know very little more.
“And so we come to the night of the murder, in June 1933. The barge was moored up when witnesses reported hearing two revolver shots. Unfortunately, they didn’t report this at the time, but only the next day, when the bodies were discovered. The barge had slipped its mooring in the night and was drifting aimlessly along the canal. A police officer was sent to bring it under control and to locate Harold, who they assumed had left the barge and gone on an all-night drinking session; when he wasn’t entertaining the ladies, he enjoyed his ale, and would regularly frequent hostelries which paid, shall we say, scant respect to the licensing laws, especially where closing time was concerned.”
“It seems to be well known that this went on,” said Trish. “Why didn’t the authorities put a stop to it?”
“Probably because the local bobby was often one of the people who stayed behind after hours for a few drinks and a sing-song. In this case, though, Harold hadn’t been at an all-night drinking session, for the constable found him on blood-soaked sheets in his bunk. He died from a single bullet to the heart. Nothing appeared to have been stolen — as far as anybody could make out, all of the possessions of Harold and Rose were still there.”
“So she did it, then,” I said. “Did they find her in this case?” I already knew what the answer would be.
“It isn’t as simple as that. No, there was no sign of Rose, nor of the gun. But the witnesses distinctly heard two gunshots, and only one bullet was found in Harold. Neither was the second bullet lodged anywhere on the barge; they searched it rigorously during the investigation and that was one of the key elements during the trial.”
“Whose trial? Rose’s?” asked Gail.
“Let me finish. My, you’re an impatient bunch,” added Louise, though we could all see that she enjoyed the fact that, once again, she had captured our interest. “No, not Rose. She was never seen again. But there was a lot of blood leading towards the side of the barge, and the police eventually concluded that the second bullet had done for Rose, and the killer had removed her body. Perhaps he’d intended to come back and remove Harold’s as well later, but the barge slipping its moorings had put an end to that plan; had it remained tied up, nobody would have investigated, as it was common for barges to remain tied up for days at a time if they had no goods to transport. It isn’t like today where the canals are full of holidaymakers and novice barge-handlers.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said. “I hired a barge on the Lancaster Canal a few years ago and it was a nightmare. It had a mind of its own — I’d steer to go one way, it would go the other, and once it ended up turning completely round in the water so we ended up facing the way we’d just come from.” I paused, as it brought back memories of happier times, before the rancorous split. “Never again,” I muttered.
“Well, Harold was an accomplished canal traveller, so he’d have had no such problems. There was a pub a hundred yards or so from the mooring point, and Harold was well known there, as was Rose. A few nights before the murder, he’d been seen arguing vehemently with one of the newer customers, a drunkard called Vince Marsland. Nobody liked Marsland. When the police follow
ed this up, they found Marsland living rough in a nearby wood. Amongst his possessions — and this was the clincher at the trial — they found a Webley Mark IV revolver, and a clip with two bullets missing. From the smell of gunsmoke, it was concluded that the revolver had been fired recently. This type of pistol was standard British issue during the First World War, and Marsland was a veteran of that conflict; he was one of the survivors at Ypres, as immortalised in McCrae’s poem In Flanders Fields.
“As they dug deeper into Marsland’s past, they found that he hadn’t always been a homeless drunkard. In fact, after returning from the war he became a successful banker, until his wife left him. Then, he turned to drink, lost everything, and eventually became homeless. Only one goal kept him from using the pistol on himself: finding the man who had taken his wife — and his life — away. Of course, Harold Scott was that man — Marsland’s wife was one of the first of Scott’s companions. And when he saw him in that canal-path pub, well, that’s when the argument began.
“Marsland never denied any of this, but he did deny doing anything afterwards. He claimed he left the pub in a foul mood but just went back to his makeshift tent. He claimed he fired the revolver twice in an attempt to bag a rabbit, but missed — the gun jumped on firing, and needed a practised, and sober, hand to be truly accurate. He claimed they must have been the two shots heard by witnesses.
“The prosecution, on the other hand, asked why a bullet of the same calibre, 11.6 millimetres, was dug out from Scott’s body. Marsland could only reply that many of those guns were still in existence, and anybody could have had and used one. The jury didn’t believe him, but Marsland wasn’t sentenced to death. The judge had some sympathy for his predicament and also took note of his distinguished war record, and sentenced him to life in prison. It was all academic, though, for Marsland died two years later in Strangeways, from a destroyed liver as the result of all his heavy drinking.”