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Murder. History. Mayhem.
Recently divorced, Ethan Hudson is looking for something to occupy his time and, encouraged by his daughter to get out more, he decides to sign up for a local evening history class. Hoping to meet new people, little does Ethan know that this course will change his life forever…
This is no ordinary history class. Instead, Ethan and his classmates are introduced to a series of mysterious murder cases that occurred over the last century within the county. At first they seem unrelated, but soon Ethan’s inquisitive and suspicious mind, fed on crime novels and detective shows, begins to see a pattern connecting the murders. But how could a series of murders dating back to 1911 have anything to do with the present day? And can Ethan solve the mystery before it is too late?
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Steve Wilson
STEVE WILSON says: I suppose in many ways I’m a late-starter as far as writing goes, waiting until I bought my first PC in 2000 before beginning a novel from an idea that I’d been mulling over for some ten years. That novel eventually became a trilogy, but my writing was sporadic during much of the noughties.
Things began to gather pace once I became a member of a local writing group, where I found being amongst like-minded peers of great benefit, and in 2011 — after writing short stories for a couple of years — I registered for the National Novel Writing Month, with the aim of writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. And that’s how “Who Wants To Live Forever?” came into being.
The premise for this novel had been with me for half a dozen years, ever since I attained a Post Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing. Work commitments prevented me from completing the course to Masters level, but I had already started to map out my major writing project, around the topic of unsolved murders in Lancashire in the twentieth century, and those plans formed a basis of what eventually became the novel.
When I’m writing, I spend a lot of time on the web as I enjoy researching the stories almost as much as writing them. I try and make the plotlines factually accurate, although I have to be careful and try not to let the story go off on a tangent as my research inevitably leads on to other non-related topics.
As to the future, although I primarily write crime or mystery tales, I’d like to explore other genres, if only out of interest.
This book is dedicated to my wife and children, who have had to carry on conversations around me while I have immersed myself in my writing. Also to my friends and colleagues at Fylde Brighter Writers, whose support and constructive criticism have helped me become a better writer, and to Victoria, Helen and Sue for their editorial assistance and advice, which I have found invaluable.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Author Bio
Dedication
Prologue: Foreword — Thursday 14th September 2000
Chapter One: Week 1 — Overview — Tuesday 20th September 2011
Chapter Two: Week 2 — Manchester — Poisoning — Tuesday 27th September 2011
Chapter Three: Mike — Monday 3rd October 2011
Chapter Four: Week 3 — Ormskirk — Bludgeoning — Tuesday 4th October 2011
Chapter Five: Amber — Friday 7th October 2011
Chapter Six: Week 4 — Rochdale — Shooting — Tuesday 11th October 2011
Chapter Seven: Gail — Tuesday 11th October 2011
Chapter Eight: Week 5 — Bolton — Drowning — Tuesday 18th October 2011
Chapter Nine: Emma — Tuesday 25th October 2011
Chapter Ten: Week 6 — Vickerstown — Plummeting — Tuesday 1st November 2011
Chapter Eleven: Trish — Sunday 6th November 2011
Chapter Twelve: Week 7 — Elswick — Hit and Run — Tuesday 8th November 2011
Chapter Thirteen: Debbie — Sunday 13th November 2011
Chapter Fourteen: Week 8 — Accrington — Stabbing — Tuesday 15th November 2011
Chapter Fifteen: Louise — Monday 21st November 2011
Chapter Sixteen: Week 9 — Heysham — Suffocation — Tuesday 22nd November 2011
Chapter Seventeen: Week 10 — Darwen — Electrocution — Tuesday 29th November 2011
Chapter Eighteen: Mrs Rhodes’ Diary — Thursday 1st December 2011
Chapter Nineteen: Afterword — Summer 2022
Epilogue: Quebec — Wednesday November 30th 2022
Excerpt
Endpages
Copyright
Prologue
Foreword — Thursday 14th September 2000
Amber Davore looked down at the lifeless form splayed out on the bathroom floor. Just minutes earlier, that body had contained the hopes and dreams for the future of fifty-five-year-old Alan Ingleby; now, it was nothing more than an empty shell.
Amber had known about his heart problems, and had used the knowledge to full advantage. Steam rose in equal measures from the near-overflowing bath and the hot mug of tea that Ingleby had placed on the floor seconds before his departure from this world; Amber leant forward to turn the tap off, only just managing to stop herself in time. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, incensed at her foolishness. Her own heart was trying to force its way out of her ribcage and she took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to regain a measure of calm. Her foot knocked the mug, splashing the hot brown liquid over Ingleby’s outstretched arm. She smiled, a mirthless smile; she had often heard it said that somebody was dying for a cup of tea, but perhaps this time Ingleby might be considered to have taken it literally. Her attempt at light jocularity only partially settled her nerves.
The bath was almost full, bringing Amber’s attention back to the present situation. She found the stopcock and turned the water off. That meant she wouldn’t have to be paddling in red-hot water while she completed her task. She spent the next half-hour correcting the wiring and making sure that everything appeared normal. Turning the water on again, she hesitated before shutting off the flow from the bath’s hot-water tap; Alan had been about to turn the cold water on when the current hit him, but once contact had been made the charge would have spread to reach all metal parts. There was no choice, though. She had to do it, to make certain that the electrical system really was back to normal; otherwise, when Ingleby’s daughter discovered the body in the morning when she came to collect him for work, the death would be treated as a murder, not an accident, and her life would become more difficult. Forensic science had made great developments over the decades, and the last thing she wanted was an investigation that might lead the police to her. Not now she was this close to her goal.
Steeling herself, she carefully reached out and touched the fitting with a single finger; there wasn’t even the slightest feeling of discomfort. Full of confidence now, she turned both hot and cold taps off and on repeatedly, laughing as the water started and stopped, splashing into the foam that Ingleby had been preparing to luxuriate in. Amber recalled the look of disbelief that had crossed his face when realisation came, a fraction of a second before the puff of life escaped his body to be encapsulated into her essence; he knew what she’d done, although he had no idea why she had done it. And he never would. Not now.
Amber checked again to make sure that everything looked normal. The bath was almost full; everything else was neatly in place. The bath! It was too full. If Ingleby had died while it was still running, it would have overflowed and water would have flooded the bathroom. Alternatively, if he had turned the water off first, and died while taking a drink prior to stepping in — which would certainly fit with the spilt tea on the floor — then the bath wouldn’t have been this full. It was lucky she’d noticed in time. She reached in and pulled the plug out to let some of the water escape, and was surprised to find the bath was still pleasantly hot. An idea formed. What better opportunity to wash away all vestiges of the deed than to have a nice long soak amongst the soapy bubbles? Besides, she was in no hurry.
She undressed slowly and walked over to the steamed-up mirror, wiping it with the back of her hand so she could get a good look at herself. Hmm, that is definitely not bad for my age, she thought. It was as if she had lost twenty years in an instant, with barely a wrinkle or an ounce of fat to be seen. Only the closest of inspections would have led anybody to believe that she was any older than her mid-thirties. And that was externally; internally, she felt as if she had only recently said farewell to her teenage years. “It’s a good job this isn’t the sixteenth century—” she laughed “—else I’d probably be burnt at the stake for being a witch. And they wouldn’t be far wrong,” she acknowledged. After all, hadn’t that been behind her choice of name, with Amber being the real name of one of the witch actresses in Buffy the Vampire Slayer? A far cry from the vampire films she had seen in years past, with whimpering women victims there only for the delights of Bela Lugosi. “Am-ber Da-vor-ez,” she said, in her best Transylvanian accent, enunciating each syllable as it tripped off her tongue.
She climbed into the bath and basked for a good half-hour before the waters at last began to cool. After drying both herself and the bath — as the water had obviously been used, there was no longer any point in trying to pretend that Ingleby had died after filling the bath — and cleaning the floor around the corpse, she put the damp towels in the laundry basket. Then she carried the now-cold mug of tea downstairs, poured the contents down the sink, and washed and dried the mug. She took a look at her watch. It was half an hour before midnight.
She took the back-door key from her pocket; it had been a simple task to take the original from Ingleby’s jacket while he was lunching in the company canteen, and she had been able to replace it before he had noticed it had gone. With the wax impression she had taken, it had been an easy job to make the crude — but effective — key that she now held. Amber was certain that nobody had spotted her entering the house that evening, but it was a little too early to leave; the last thing she needed was to be seen now, just as everything was more or less finished. She went into the living room and sat in the dark, waiting for the clock to tick slowly over, and almost three hours later she left the house for the last time.
As for Amber —Well, she thought, this is the part I’m used to now. I’ll just lie low and remain patient, keep a low profile until it’s time. Just once more, that was all. She turned the corner and disappeared into the night.
Chapter One
Week 1 — Overview
Tuesday 20th September 2011
I stood outside the college wondering whether or not I’d done the correct thing; it had all seemed so worthwhile less than a week earlier when I had signed up for the Local History course that the Adult Education Department had included amongst their offerings for the new term, but now it came to it – well, to say I was having doubts was an understatement of hyperbolic proportions.
I suppose it was the thought of the others on the course that bothered me. I had seen some of them while enrolling, and they all looked so much more, well, scholarly really, than I was. It had come home to me when I was about to leave home an hour or so earlier, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror; what I saw didn’t exactly inspire me, and I almost turned back.
When you don’t see yourself every day — I don’t mean looking in the mirror when you’re having a shave or anything like that, but really seeing yourself — well, you tend to build up an image that doesn’t conform to reality. At least, that was what I did. But as I looked closely at my reflection in the glass, I had to accept that time really had taken its toll. Yes, that really was me looking back at myself: Ethan Hudson, late fifties, recently retired, with thinning brown hair flecked with grey. Or, to be more accurate, thinning grey hair flecked with brown. Still slim, I thought, trying to ignore the paunch that hung over the top of my trousers, obscuring sight of my belt. But I wasn’t kidding anybody. Who on earth would be interested in a body like that? So all I had to go on was personality, and that had taken a back seat ever since the acrimonious divorce two years ago that had destroyed whatever vestiges of confidence I might have had. With my daughter married but now living in Hampshire, and my son away for the next year as a volunteer on a project in Argentina, I was, I suppose, living a lonely existence; with post-work days seeming to last forever, it hadn’t taken a lot of prompting to make me take a look in the Gazette Adult Education Department’s column advertising the new session’s courses.
It was actually my daughter, Julie, who had persuaded me to take this action, during one of our weekly phone calls:
“Hi, Dad, how are you this week?”
“Much the same, much the same.”
“So that means you’re still stuck at home every night, then?”
“Well, love, it isn't that easy. Not at my age…”
“Of course it is, Dad! Especially at your age. You’ve no commitments, nothing to stop you getting out there. I worry about you. It isn't as if I can just pop in and see you every night, is it?”
“Hey, I don’t need looking after to that extent. I’m quite capable of doing something about it myself.”
“Then go on and do it. Why don’t you book on one of those evening classes? It’ll give you something to think about, and you might meet somebody nice there.”
“Oh, so you’re the matchmaker now, are you?”
“We’re just concerned, that’s all.”
“We? So you discuss me with your friends, do you?”
“Very funny, Dad. I was talking with Gary last night and he feels the same as I do. He was even talking about cutting his volunteering trip short and coming back home.”
“Tell your brother he’s not to do that. He’ll regret it forever if he does. I’m really proud of what he’s doing out there, so, next time you speak, tell him he must keep at it.”
“I wish you’d talk to him. Skype is so easy to use.”
“Now, Jules, you know that I’m a bit of a technophobe. I just can’t seem to get the hang of computers, so, much as I’d love to, it just isn't me, I’m afraid.”
“Then why not look for a beginners’ course in computing? That would solve both problems.”
“It just doesn’t sound interesting enough, and if I wasn’t interested I’d stop going.”
“Okay then, why not follow one of your interests? You’re always saying you could do better than those detectives you watch on the TV. There must be something in that area you could enrol on.”
“Oh, I tried, but ‘How to catch a murderer in ten easy lessons’ was all booked up.”
“Ha ha, very funny. You should be on the stage. But, seriously, you know I’m right, don’t you? You love your puzzles, so even if there isn't a course for prospective Inspector Morses, there must be something that will stretch your brain.”
“Okay, you win. I’ll look, I promise.”
“Good. And I know you. Don’t think you can get away with making something up and telling me about it during our phone calls. I’ll expect you to show me some solid proof when I next visit.”
“Will do. When is that again, late November?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m coming up for a work conference, so Dave won’t be with me. I’m presenting my first advertising campaign, so it’s a big chance for me.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it’s a lot of pressure.”
“Are all the junior staff involved?”
“No, I’m the only one.”
“That must be really good, then. So let’s get together afterwards, and I promise I’ll have something to tell you about my reintegration into society by then.”
Promise made, I knew I couldn’t let my daughter down. Most of the courses on offer didn’t appeal to me, and I was beginning to think that I’d have to take something I wouldn’t enjoy just to placate Julie when I saw one that caught my attention:
Local History — Learn about life in Lancashire during the last hundred years. Your experienced course presenter, Louise James, will take you on a ten-week journey through the county’s many towns and cities and you will experience life as it was for the inhabitants in those times.
I had lived on the Fylde all my life, yet knew very little about the rest of the county. This course sounded as if it would be interesting and so I decided to enrol. It had taken everything I could muster to venture to the enrolment day, but at first a small amount of self-assurance had returned, and when I saw a few women enrolling on the courses I even began to look forward to this evening with an anticipation I hadn’t felt for over thirty years. Although I wasn’t used to interacting at a social level with the opposite sex, I found the prospect to be far from unattractive.
When I mentioned what I’d done to her, Julie was a little surprised to hear that I’d be studying history. “I hope you’re not the only one on the course,” she joked. I laughed; I was looking forward to the course with a confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time.
But now, standing looking at the imposing college entrance, that confidence dissipated. I might have turned away if I hadn’t remembered the money; granted, a hundred pounds wasn’t a lot to spend on a ten-week course, but I’d paid it and I wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the doors and entered the foyer. Nobody was about, but a laminated sign on the noticeboard directed me to follow the purple line to room M6 for “A course in Lancashire history” and I followed the purple footsteps pasted on the floor — intersecting at times with yellow for “Photography” and red for “Life Drawing” — until I came to the designated classroom.
As I opened the door it was like stepping back in time to my first day at senior school. The classroom was big enough for thirty or so pupils, containing five large circular tables and a front teacher’s desk. The two tables towards the rear of the room and the one in the centre all had chairs stacked on top of them, leaving just the two at the front for me to sit at. One of those was empty, the other had half a dozen people already sitting around it, and a dozen eyes focused on me as I entered.
I headed for the far, unoccupied, table, but a woman who looked to be in her thirties rose from her seat and directed me towards the seventh chair around the nearest table. As I sat I took a closer look at the other occupants. The three women, who I judged to be in their thirties, forties and fifties, included two who I had seen at enrolment six days earlier; I noticed now that only one of them wore a wedding ring. The woman who had directed me to my seat hadn’t been there at enrolment — at least, not while I was there — and the other two were a man and woman barely out of their teens.
All seven of us sat there, some of us fidgeting nervously, all of us trying to avoid eye contact, as we wondered what was going to happen next. The three women were to my right, the two youngsters to my left, with the woman who had directed me to my seat almost opposite me. I looked at my watch — two minutes past seven — and unwittingly caught her eye.
“Yes,” she said, “I think it’s about time we started. I had hoped that we might have a few more late enrollers, but it looks like half a dozen is all we’re going to have on the course.” She looked round at the six of us. “I recognise a couple of you from last week, but not all,” she added, looking in my direction as she spoke.
“Just in case any of you have come to the wrong room, this is the Local History course, where we’ll be taking a closer look at some of the events that have taken place across Lancashire over the last hundred years.” She looked to see if anybody had come to the wrong location — again, I noticed her glance more at me than anybody else — and then continued. “Good, it seems we’re all here for the right reasons.”
I looked at her as she began giving us a brief introduction to the topic. She was almost librarian-looking, with short bobbed brown hair and glasses; she reminded me of Donna Reed in the alternate-reality portion of It’s A Wonderful Life, but I soon saw that she portrayed none of the timidity of that character.
“Before we begin,” she said, cutting across my mind-wandering, “I think it would be helpful if we all introduced ourselves and said a little about what we hope to gain during the next few months. I’ll start. I’m Louise James, and, as you’ve gathered, I’ll be teaching this short course and, over the next ten weeks, I hope to introduce you all to some of the more interesting events and characters associated with the county of Lancashire since 1911. Some people think of history in terms of wars and nations, but it is much, much more than that. A single unsolved murder that took place a century ago can still have relevance today…”
There was a sharp gasp from one of the women to my right, but when I instinctively turned to look all three looked deep in concentration on Louise’s words and I wondered if I had imagined it.
“Everybody has a history, something that is personal to each and every one of you, and I want to begin by exploring that. So come on now, it’s your turn, stand up and introduce yourselves to the group. Tell us what you hope to get out of the course.”
I always hated that sort of thing, and I tried to sink down into my chair to become less noticeable, but Louise was looking directly at me and I had no choice. I stood and, in an unsteady voice, I began. “Er, I’m Ethan Hudson, and I’m fifty-nine years old. When I was younger, I hated my name, but now it’s come back into fashion it makes me feel a bit younger.” I could feel sweat beginning to trickle down my temple. That wasn’t what she meant when she said introduce yourself but I felt as if my mouth had been working of its own volition. “Yes, er, I’m divorced, two children, one married and living in the South of England and the other on a sabbatical to South America for a year, so I don’t get to see much of them, unfortunately. I’m retired, but I worked for most of my career as a loss adjuster at a variety of insurance firms across Lancashire. So I’ve travelled about the county, but know very little about it, really. What am I hoping to get from the course? It’s strange in a way. I always hated history when I was at school, but now I’m older I often find myself wondering about the past. Especially as a lot of it is my own past, but you don’t look upon things in the same way when you’re a child, do you? It’s the chance to learn a little about the county I was born in that attracted me when I saw the advert. And that’s about it, I suppose,” I said, hastily sitting down.