Who Wants to Live Forever?

by Steve Wilson

  Too many conflicting things were vying for my attention: Debbie, Trish, unsolved murders, preventing a murder-in-waiting. I tried to forget about the cases, concentrating instead on the two women who had entered my life over the previous few weeks. I was finding it impossible to choose between them, with each of them alternating between taking centre stage as I considered their relative merits and demerits. Eventually, I concluded that casting another look at the murders might help take my mind off the women. And, perhaps, might help me finally make my choice.

  It was mid-afternoon, just beginning to go dark, and I decided to go for a drive. I found myself heading into Preston, without really knowing why, and then I had an idea. I knew the date of the next murder; at least, I was fairly certain I knew it: June twenty-ninth 1989. And I knew the location, Heysham. I had often called in the Harris Library to make use of their reference section, and I wondered if I might be able to find out anything in the local newspapers. Admittedly, Heysham was a little outside the reporting range of the Lancashire Evening Post, but if it had been a notable murder, it might well have made the Preston press.

  I parked in a side road close to the university and set a quick pace towards the library. It was after four p.m., and the library was only open until five, but I figured that should give me sufficient time to check the old microfilm copies of the newspaper. Running up the steps two at a time, I headed into the reference section. Fortune favoured me, for one of the readers wasn’t being used, and I asked the librarian for the film for June 1989.

  It took her a few minutes to find it, and I was strumming impatiently on the table by the time she returned with the small box. I quickly began scanning the pages, looking for an edition from June thirtieth. It was with some excitement that I saw the pages for Friday June 30th 1989 and I began checking each headline. There was nothing. Or perhaps I was looking for the wrong thing. If it was an unexplained death, there wouldn’t necessarily be any reference to a murder in the heading; it was more likely that there would be something about a tragic accident in the town.

  I checked the pages again, but still there was nothing. Then I had another thought. The print process in the late 1980s was nothing like the sophisticated computerised procedure of today. Deadlines were much tighter, and if events happened after a certain time, the story would have to wait until the next day’s edition. Perhaps what I was after was in the paper from July first? I wound the film on, only to find I was at the end; the label on the box read 1989 Quarter 2, April to June.

  It was nearing closing time now, but I reckoned I still had time to check the next reel. I returned to the librarian and asked her for the film for the third quarter of that year. I felt deflated when I saw that the papers for both Saturday the first and Monday third of July contained nothing that seemed to be related to the murders at all. Could I have misinterpreted everything? No, I told myself. I was convinced that I was on the correct track. It must have been, as I first thought, that the Preston newspaper didn’t cover everyday events that occurred outside the town.

  As I drove back home I considered my options. On Monday, I could drive into Lancaster and access their newspaper records, or I could leave it until Tuesday night, and get the information directly from Louise. After all, what was the rush? If I was correct in my interpretation of events, I still had more than a week to solve the case, and it seemed foolish to attempt to do it all myself when Louise was already almost there. In fact, if I told her everything I knew, I was certain she would tell me everything she knew about the case.

  I was still considering the possibilities after I left my car in the car park and began to walk back towards my flat. I mustn’t have been concentrating, for I didn’t hear the car at all as I crossed the main road. It must have been instinct that caused me to look up, just in time to see a vehicle heading directly for me. At the last second, I threw myself to the side and I felt the drag as the car sped past. I just had time to see the back of the red-haired woman driver’s head before my head hit the tarmac and I blacked out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Louise — Monday 21st November 2011

  Louise awoke with a start. She could hear somebody in her flat. She looked at the clock. It was three twenty-seven a.m.

  Slowly, she pushed back the bed covers, put her glasses on, and swung her legs over the side. Her mobile was on the bedside table, and she reached for it. This was not a time to be foolhardy; she would call the police. But the phone was dead. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth in a belated attempt to stifle the sound. She had meant to charge it up overnight, but had forgotten all about it.

  She listened carefully. Whoever was in her front room hadn’t apparently heard her, as the sound of items being moved continued. Could it be an animal? But she hadn’t left a window open, so how could it have entered the flat?

  She picked up an old walking stick emblazoned with badges, a souvenir that her father had given her after a cross-Europe coach tour he had undertaken years earlier. Very carefully, Louise opened the door and crept out. It took her eyes a few seconds to become accustomed to the gloom; she couldn’t see anybody, but it was obvious that someone had been there. Her computer wasn’t on the table where she had left it. A sense of relief hit her; the thief had probably gone. Although they had taken things belonging to her, they could always be replaced. Even her computer, as she had all of the important files backed up. Then she saw that the lock on her drawer had been forced. Had they…?

  A sound immediately behind her caught her attention. Louise turned, but it appeared to be in slow motion, and she was only halfway through her rotation when she received a crushing blow to the side of her head.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Week 9 — Heysham — Suffocation

  Tuesday 22nd November 2011

  I was only unconscious for a few seconds. When I came to, an elderly couple were leaning over me. Gingerly, I rubbed my temple as I rose to my feet, accepting the helping hand of the old gentleman.

  “Did you get the registration?” asked the woman.

  “No, it happened too quickly,” I replied. “All I managed to see was the back of a woman’s head.”

  “Tchh,” exclaimed the man, “that’s the trouble with these young women nowadays. No doubt she was on the phone to her boyfriend and she didn’t even see you.”

  “Probably,” agreed the woman. “She was all over the road, and if you hadn’t jumped out of the way you’d almost certainly be on your way to hospital now with a broken leg — or maybe something worse. She would have caught you a right glancing blow with the front wing of her motor.”

  I suppose I should have felt grateful that I hadn’t been hurt that badly, but I could already feel the bump rising on my head, I had scraped my cheek and my hand hurt from the grazing it had taken as I automatically put it out to try and break my fall. Plus I now had a rip across the knee of my favourite pair of trousers; I was feeling many things, but gratitude wasn’t one of them, although I did express my thanks to the couple who had come to my aid, before leaving them and walking home. I took extra care at every crossing, though.

  I stayed in all day Sunday and Monday, feeling quite sorry for myself. I must have been bad, for I sat through the entire Eastenders omnibus without switching off, and, of all the soaps, that was the one I detested most. I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that perhaps it hadn’t been an accident. Louise had told us she thought that she was being followed. She’d even mentioned seeing Emma, and Gail had told us that Emma had disappeared. Was she out to get Louise because of what she knew? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Emma as the killer, but wasn’t it often the case that it was the one you least suspected who was the ‘whodunnit’?

  And, now that I was closing in on the truth, were they after me as well? Which meant that Trish was also at risk, as I’d told her my theory. I was glad now that I hadn’t been able to contact Debbie on Saturday, otherwise she, too, might become a target. But what if the killer was just making sure by trying
to eliminate everybody who knew anything about her? Then Debbie would be just as much at risk as any of us. This was becoming ridiculous. I rubbed my temple again. My head hurt, and not just from the bump.

  By Tuesday morning I began to feel quite a lot better. With the improvement in my health came an equivalent recovery for my mind, and I accepted that I, too, had become paranoid. Bump or no bump, I was ready to meet Louise and discuss my theories with her. It wasn’t to be, though.

  I arrived at college a few minutes before seven, and Trish and Debbie were already there. “Are you all right?” asked Debbie, concern in her voice.

  “Yes, not too bad,” I replied, wanting to change the subject, for I didn’t relish the thought of explaining how careless I had been; I had hoped that there would be nothing on show to indicate that I had been in an accident, but that was obviously just wishful thinking.

  Trish looked as if she was about to say something, but at that moment the door opened, and we all turned, expecting to see Louise walk in. Instead, though, we saw a grey-haired man who was probably in his late forties or early fifties, and he looked the epitome of the 1960s university lecturer in his tweed jacket complete with leather elbow patches, brown trousers, white frayed-collar shirt and a thin, slightly stained blue tie. He walked over to the front desk and put his briefcase down, before turning to face us.

  “Your normal teacher, Louise, has called in sick, so the education department have asked me to come in and take this week’s class. Hopefully, Louise will be back to take the final class a week tonight. So, shall we begin? My name is Roger Boulding, and I’ve studied the history of the county for most of my working life. Now, according to Louise’s records, I assume that you are Ethan, Trish and Deborah?”

  Debbie wasted no time in correcting Roger with regard to her name, but he didn’t seem that interested as he launched into a long-winded and quite boring exposition of Lancashire Life in the 1950s. He spent an inordinate length of time enthusing about the opening of the M6 Preston Bypass, Britain’s first motorway section, in December 1958. Had this been the beginning of the course, I would probably have found it extremely illuminating, and I’m certain that Debbie would have found it much more to her taste. But that wasn’t where we were any more; the previous eight weeks had seen us ascend to a different level, and I felt intense frustration because I had wanted to seek confirmation of my theories from Louise.

  For the first time since the course began, the evening dragged, and it seemed as if a week had passed before it was finally time to go home. As we picked up our belongings I decided I had to try and find out more about Louise: was it just a simple head cold, in which case we could expect her back next week, or was it something more long-term?

  “Roger,” I asked, “you said Louise called in sick. I was wondering whether to send her a get well card, or whether she’ll be better before it arrives. Have you any idea?”

  “I don’t know a great deal, er…Ethan, but if you are going to send a card, you’d better send it to Blackpool Victoria Hospital. I don’t know what ward she is on, but I’m sure it will reach her.”

  “She’s in hospital?” I spluttered. “It must be pretty serious, then. Do you know what time visiting hours are?”

  “There won’t be any more visiting tonight, and I wouldn’t advise it just yet anyway. By all accounts, she took quite a beating.”

  I was numb with shock, and it seemed, from the lack of comment, that Trish and Debbie were similarly astonished. Finally, I managed to find my voice. “Quite a beating? Why? What happened exactly?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, closing his briefcase. “It appears that she disturbed a burglar in her home yesterday morning. He must have attacked her when she walked in on him while he was rifling through her goods.”

  “So she’s hurt really badly, is she?” asked Debbie, concern obvious in her tone.

  “I don’t think it’s that serious. In fact, from what I understand, she’s more upset at the theft of her computer and all of her research materials. She’d been working on some of the information for years, and now it’s all gone. The heartless bastard even took all of her back-up discs and memory sticks.” Roger picked up his case and walked towards the door, leaving the three of us speechless.

  ***

  I don’t think I’d ever needed a drink as much as I did that evening. Possibly the same applied to Trish and Debbie as well; all I know is that the three of us sat there, at our usual table, trying to avoid looking at the empty seat that Louise would normally have occupied.

  Eventually, Debbie broke the silence. “So what exactly did happen to you, Ethan? You looked as if you’d been in the wars a little when you came in the classroom tonight.”

  I explained what had happened, as succinctly as possible, but as I spoke the memory of the evening came back, bringing to mind a clearer image of the woman driver. The old couple who had helped me had been mistaken; she wasn’t a young woman on the phone to her boyfriend, of that I was certain. I had only managed to glimpse her briefly, and at the time I hadn’t even remembered that much, but there was something familiar about her features. I took a sip of my drink and looked up, and froze as I saw the light falling on Trish’s red hair. That was familiar.

  And suddenly, things began to make some kind of sense, although there was still an awful lot that I had no answers to. I didn’t want to suspect Trish of being involved, but she was the only person I had explained my theory to, last Friday night, and for both myself and Louise to be involved in incidents within three days seemed too much of a coincidence.

  “I said, are you all right now, Ethan?”

  I jolted to full alertness as I saw Debbie leaning over me. The familiar image of the driver was back in my mind again, but I forcibly brushed it to one side. I needed to have all my wits about me now. “Yes, I’m fine. Really, I am. I was just having a flashback to the moment; it’s the first time I’ve spoken about it since it happened, and it made me realise how close I came to becoming another accident statistic. I don’t think I’m safe to be let out on the streets by myself any more,” I half joked, trying to make light of everything.

  “I think you need another drink,” said Trish, taking my glass and rising from the table.

  “No, I’d better not. The truth is, I have got a bit of a headache still, and I shouldn’t really have come out tonight. I think it’s best if I go back home and rest. But I’m sure I’ll be fine by next week, and I’ll see you both then. And, hopefully, Louise will be back too — I don’t think I could stand another two hours of Roger the old Codger.”

  “At least let me give you a lift home,” said Trish, but I forestalled her again.

  “No, the fresh air will do me good. And I promise I’ll take extra care when crossing the road. You two stay here and have another drink; it isn’t fair that I should spoil your evening.”

  I left, giving them no opportunity to object, and I walked home as quickly as I could, all the time keeping a wary eye out in case anybody was following me; I hoped that Trish would have stayed at the pub with Debbie, but I couldn’t be certain of that.

  Although I’d told the women I needed to rest, and although that was probably the best thing for me to do, given the circumstances, rest was one item that was not on my immediate agenda. For the first time in three days, I thought about my plans to find out the details of the Heysham murder. It was too late to go to Lancaster and check their library records, and even if I did there was no guarantee that I’d find anything of significance. But now that I’d used my computer to find the significance of the number eleven, I figured it might also be able to help with this.

  I soon found myself immersed in the millions upon millions of pieces of information that were now at my fingertips. Why hadn’t I embraced this technology before? I spent the remainder of the evening Googling and searching a variety of sites, trying all combinations of key words that I could think of: Heysham, murder, unexplained death, 29th June 1989. Initially, I could find out n
othing of interest from pages that each search presented me with. I had my first breakthrough an hour or so after midnight, when a webpage turned up the name Frank Uttley. I was too tired to take it any further that night, so I just made a note of the details in my book and left it to the morning.

  Surprisingly, I slept well that night, and it was well after nine a.m. before I woke. Without even pausing for breakfast, I went straight back to the computer, nourished by the excitement and anticipation of what I hoped to discover.

  Now that I had a name to work from, progress became much quicker, although it still took me the best part of the day to gather all of the facts together. Eventually, though, my task was complete, and I turned over the pages of my notebook and read back the details I had transcribed during the day:

  Frank Uttley was found dead at Heysham Head on 29th June 1989. He had been suffocated, and there was a pillow on the ground next to his body. Frank was a sixty-nine-year-old former miner, and he had retired to the seaside, having been born in Wigan. The police case focused on the underlying political climate of the time, especially coming only a few years after the miners’ strike. He began work in the Golborne Colliery at Wigan, but left there after the 1979 mine blast in which ten of his colleagues died. The cause was a fireball, the result of a build-up of methane gas, which shot two hundred yards along a tunnel when the miners were 1800 feet underground. Not only did Frank leave the pit, he left Wigan, but he continued to work in the industry, taking a job as mine manager at Sutton Colliery in Nottinghamshire.

  As Frank was fully aware of the dangers of coalmining, despite it being his job, it is perhaps understandable that he was against the 1984 National Union of Mineworkers’ strike, which was all about opposition to the Thatcher government’s decision to close down many of the pits, with the inevitable result of mass redundancies. Even though he could also be affected by the closures, as he was approaching retirement age he would suffer less than most if his pit were to shut. There is also the argument that the Nottinghamshire mines were supposedly those least in danger of closure, so perhaps there was an element of self-interest at work.