Who Wants to Live Forever? (14 page)

“I was wondering what sort of car you had, as you always walk to the college,” she said, greeting me with a peck on the cheek.

“I know. It isn’t new, but it’s mine.” I laughed. “I lost a lot in the divorce, but not everything. I walk when it isn’t too far, as it’s good exercise — and at my age, it helps strengthen the bones. But tonight I thought I’d drive, not least because it will ensure I stay sober.”

“Why, what are you planning to do to me that means you need to keep a clear head?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye. “Or are you afraid of what I might do to you if your defences are down?”

I laughed, but pointedly didn’t answer. Perhaps I’d been right after all when I’d thought of tonight as a date; I really didn’t know any more.

Trish linked arms with me as we walked into the lounge bar. I was amazed to find we were the only customers, although I did see a few people in the public bar when I went to get the drinks. Even so, for a Friday evening it was a very poor turnout, and a sure sign that, although we weren’t in a recession as far as the official figures went, people were still being very careful with their hard-earned money.

There ensued a very pleasant evening of chat, where we found out a lot more about each other. Neither of us were heavily into the modern-day music scene, but we both enjoyed music from the sixties and seventies.

“I was brought up on The Beatles,” I said, “but I have to admit, at the time in the sixties, I preferred The Monkees. Even though they were a group manufactured entirely for a TV programme.”

“A bit before my time,” joked Trish. “No, I do remember them, but my favourite era for music came when I was in my teens in the early seventies.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “you bought
Puppy Love
.”

“Well, you guessed wrong. I didn’t particularly like Donny Osmond. I found him to be overly sugary-sweet. My heartthrobs from that era were David Cassidy and David Essex.” She started humming
Could It Be Forever
. “I can’t sing, but I like humming the tunes,” she said, as if an explanation were necessary, and began to hum
Hold Me Close
.

“Is that last one an invitation?” I asked. She laughed. “I suppose I enjoyed music most in the early seventies,” I continued. “I’d listen to Noel Edmonds’ Breakfast Show and became a big fan of glam rock, especially Slade.”

“I liked glam too. I was in love with Marc Bolan. And then there was Freddie Mercury.”

“Now we’re on common ground. Queen were special. I was lucky enough to see them in Preston when
Bohemian Rhapsody
reached number one.”

We carried on chatting throughout the evening, and it was time to leave before I knew it. As I walked Trish to her car she linked arms with me. “I’ll see you Tuesday night,” she said, unlocking her door, then pulled me towards her and gave me a warm goodnight kiss. She didn’t mention my date with Debbie the next night at all; perhaps the kiss was meant to convey how she felt about that. I knew how I felt about the kiss. I felt forty years younger.

***

I had mixed emotions as I drove to meet Debbie on the Saturday evening. Trish had seemed to indicate on our date that we could be an item if I wanted us to be, and it was a very pleasant prospect indeed. I had tried to view both Trish and Debbie as ‘just’ friends, but was beginning to realise that was a rather naïve intention. All of this made my date with Debbie a little awkward. What if she asked about the previous evening? What could I tell her? My ‘clever’ ruse of Tuesday night was looking more stupid with every passing second.

We had arranged to meet at a coffee bar in Blackpool, which was far busier than the pub I had gone to with Trish. I almost said as much to Debbie, but reasoned at the last moment that perhaps it would be wise to make no mention of the previous night’s events. I was surprised to see the battered satchel over her shoulder; she really
did
mean it when she said it went everywhere with her, but it looked out of place when she removed her coat to display a dress that really emphasised her feminine curves. Once again, I marvelled at how she didn’t look her age; she certainly liked to dress as if she were twenty years younger, and she had heads turning admiring views in her direction, even on this cold November evening.

We managed to find a table in a corner booth that would suffice for an evening’s chat, and as we sat down with our drinks — latte for me, mocha for Debbie — I looked forward to finding out everything about her.

Things didn’t quite turn out the way I expected, though. Debbie began by saying, “Can I ask you something, Ethan?”

“Of course you can! Why do you need to ask?”

“It’s about the class, and I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk about that tonight.”

“I don’t mind, but I didn’t think you liked talking about it. Ask away — as long as it isn’t
all
we talk about, it’s fine with me.”

“Good. It’s about last Tuesday, when we were chatting over the coffee break. You said you thought Louise might be right, but you didn’t have time to elaborate on that.”

I thought back, trying to remember what had caused me to say that. “That’s right. When she came to join us we became involved in more specific discussions about the night’s case instead. I was going to say that I’ve read her factsheets after each lesson and I think there
are
links between the deaths, although I’m not sure exactly what they are yet. The fact that they have happened every eleven years must be significant, surely.”

“But that’s where I can’t agree with you, Ethan. Louise has researched deaths in a variety of towns and cities in specific years and said they are related. But I could do that — give me any year, and I could find an unexplained death that occurred somewhere in Lancashire. It strikes me that she’s looking to create a link between several totally unrelated events.”

“Yes, but would they all involve strange women who can’t be traced afterwards?”

“But do they? From what I understand, the main reason nobody could find them afterwards was that nobody really looked for them — or most of them — as they weren’t suspects. In fact one of them appears to have been another victim rather than the murderer.”

“Only
appears
— her body was never found.”

“But that doesn’t mean she did it, though, does it? Sometimes, the obvious answer is the correct one, and you don’t need to go looking for anything that is more obscure.”

And that was the tone of the evening, really. By the time we were ready to leave, I knew no more about Debbie than when we had arrived. As I helped her on with her coat I caught a glimpse inside the bag, and noticed a thick leather-bound book. Debbie saw me looking and said, “That’s my novel. I’m writing it longhand in an old writing book I picked up in a backstreet bookshop years ago. It’s coming along well — it’ll be finished in a few weeks, and I’ll be happy to show it you then.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“I’m sorry if tonight wasn’t what you were expecting. I mean,
dates
and all that.”

“Not at all. I’ve really enjoyed your company — we must do it again.”

In a way, though, everything that had happened during the evening only enhanced her allure, and, despite a slight feeling of disappointment at failing to find out much more about Debbie, the goodnight peck she gave me on my cheek seemed more sensual than Trish’s full kiss of a night earlier.

I wondered what would happen when we all met up again in three days’ time.

Chapter Eleven

Trish — Sunday 6
^th
November 2011

Trish smiled as she soaked in her bath. What better opportunity to wash away all vestiges of the past than to have a nice long soak amongst the soapy bubbles? She could now start to look forward to what might be instead of dwelling on what had been.

Everything was beginning to fit into place. The date had turned out exactly as she’d planned. Of course, there was always the slight problem of Debbie, but Trish was certain that her feminine wiles would prove an irresistible lure for Ethan.

He was obviously interested in her, and she had come to the conclusion that he was looking for a long-term relationship when they opened up to each other all those weeks ago. It had helped that Debbie had already said that she didn’t do long-term, but even without that she knew there was no competition. Ethan was a discerning man and wouldn’t be taken in by Debbie’s brazen appearance. Besides, she had let him know that she was interested when she gave him that goodnight kiss. It was a promise of what she could offer.

She hadn’t told him everything about herself, of course; a woman was entitled to her secrets, after all. It was far better to let him believe that her relationship with Eddie had ended on good terms, rather than let him know the truth. It had been terrible, having that happen to her twice. Little wonder that she’d receded into her shell for such a long time. But she’d known that she had to snap out of it soon, else it would be too late, and with the course start-date looming she had finally shaken herself into action. She knew one thing: no man would ever hurt her in that way again.

Despite the setbacks she had suffered over the years, she was brimming with confidence once more. Now, she was almost back to her old self; on top of her game, she knew she could get any man she desired. And, right now, she knew exactly who she desired.

As the water lapped around her shoulders she smiled again. Yes, he was the one for her. Just give me a few more weeks, she thought, and I’ll have him exactly where I want him. Poor Ethan. She felt sorry for him, as a spider might have sympathy for an unwary fly. He would be putty in her hands once she really began to take control.

Chapter Twelve

Week 7 — Elswick — Hit and Run

Tuesday 8
^th
November 2011

When I arrived at class the following Tuesday evening, for the first time I wasn’t solely interested in the content of the lesson; in fact, if somebody had come in and said the class was cancelled because Louise was ill, I would have been disappointed, but as long as Trish and Debbie were there it wouldn’t have been a total disaster. But that didn’t happen; Louise came in with a hand full of papers and sat down at the circular table directly opposite me. I had Trish on my right and Debbie on my left, with barely a foot between our chairs.

“It looks as if you’re expecting another dozen people the way you’re crammed together,” she said, leaning over to look in her briefcase for some more literature. Rather guiltily, like small children who’d been told off for talking in class, Trish and Debbie edged their chairs away from me. When Louise looked up again, she appeared to be surprised at the move. “I didn’t mean…” she began, then thought better of it, and handed us our sheets for the night.

“Okay, let’s begin, shall we? Tonight I want to talk about the death of Chris Newton in 1967. Yes, Ethan, I said 196
7
.”

Louise must have seen the look of surprise on my face; I knew I should have expected it, for she had told me that my “every eleven years” theory was flawed, but I had been so convinced that I was right that I’d refused to listen. I looked at the other women. Trish appeared to be unfazed by the whole thing, whereas Debbie almost had a look of
I told you so
on her face.

“It happened not too far from here, in the little village of Elswick, and was first viewed as a classic hit-and-run case. But the case wasn’t closed, as some people believed it had racial undertones. So, let me give you the full and complete details as I have them. It happened on Thursday January twenty-sixth 1967, at about eight p.m. Chris was knocked off his bike outside the village church, the Elswick Memorial Congregational Church, and he died instantly.”

“I know Elswick,” I said, “but I don’t think I know that church. I’ve heard of the Elswick Memorial United Reform Church, though.”

“It is the same place. Five years later, in 1972, the Congregational joined in the union of the English Presbyterians and Congregational Churches to become the United Reform Church that you know.”

“So what was there about the killing that made people think it was anything other than a hit and run?” asked Debbie. “I mean, you said it happened at night; perhaps he was cycling without lights?”

“I thought when you said
bike
that he was on a motorbike,” said Trish.

“No, Debbie is correct, it was a bicycle. There was a light on the cycle, but it had been so badly mangled in the accident that it didn’t work, so it’s impossible to say whether or not it was operational at the time. Nobody saw the incident so there are no witnesses to attest either way. So why would it be murder rather than just an accident? Well, for a start, the motorist didn’t report the incident, and there is absolutely no way that he could have been unaware of what had happened, for he drove right over the poor man, bicycle and all. He must have died within minutes of being hit; he was certainly dead when the local village policeman found him while he was patrolling the beat.

“And then secondly, there was Newton’s business. He owned a Spanish-themed restaurant.”

“I don’t understand,” said Trish. “Plenty of people own Spanish, Italian, Chinese, all sorts of restaurants. So what’s the big deal?”

“We’re talking about the1960s, remember, when people from another country
were
a big deal with some sections of society. Chris had been on holiday to Majorca early in 1966, and on his return he decided he’d try and bring a taste of the Mediterranean to Lancashire. He found some premises in Preston — a former fish and chip cafeteria — and late in 1966 he opened the Viva Espana restaurant. To give it an authentic look and feel, he hired four Spanish staff to cook and wait tables — Sergio Martinez and Javier Suarez were the chefs, Hermosa Vebraho and Alita Reija were employed to wait on.

“Such a restaurant was a novelty in Preston — perhaps it was in most cities outside London at that time — and the tapas menu Chris introduced didn’t go down well with all of the locals, who were used to less exciting fare than was on offer. So, although they would think nothing of eating tomatoes on toast,
pan con tomate
was abhorrent to them, even though it was basically the same thing. It was probably the garlic that made the difference — most people at that time associated it with Christopher Lee from the 1958
Dracula
film. Similarly with
paella
— again, Lancashire folk didn’t think twice about eating cockles and mussels out of vinegar-soaked paper cones on Blackpool seafront, but put the shellfish on a bed of rice and give the meal a foreign name, and it was as if the devil himself had taken up residence in the kitchens. And when you consider that the menu also included battered squid and slices of octopus — well, you can just imagine how that made the townsfolk feel.”