Who Wants to Live Forever? (23 page)

Did that help at all? I already knew about the eleven-year gap in the dates. But was there anything further hidden amongst the jumble of places and names? One thing I did spot was that the column containing the names of the victims was the most uniform of the four. I counted the number of letters in each name.
Eleven
. That
couldn’t
be a coincidence. Everything was linked to the number eleven.

Did the same apply to the places? No, it didn’t, so that was one theory dashed. Similarly for the murderers. But the victims — that
must
have some significance. So whoever was the target tonight would have eleven letters in their name. I stifled an ironic laugh. Much good it would do them for me to say tomorrow,
Oh, I knew it would be somebody with a name like the victim’s
.

I continued doodling, deciding to list the places randomly in case that helped.
Heysham
,
Bolton
,
Ormskirk
,
Vickerstown
,
Elswick
,
Rochdale
,
Accrington
,
Manchester
,
Darwen
. That didn’t help. And then I spotted it.
Vickerstown
,
Elswick
,
Rochdale
,
Accrington
. Taking the initials, that spelt
Vera
, one of the murder suspects. Another coincidence? Vera Broad. I stared at her name; not her Christian name this time, but her surname. B-R-O-A-D.
Bolton
,
Rochdale
,
Oldham
,
Accrington
,
Darwen
.

I chose another name at random: Maeve O’Hara.
Manchester
,
Accrington
,
Elswick
,
Vickerstown
,
Elswick
,
Ormskirk
,
Heysham
,
Accrington
,
Rochdale
,
Accrington
.

The same applied for any of the names I chose. The only letter that didn’t fit was
S
. But there were ten different letters, and only nine murders so far. The tenth had to be in a place beginning with S.
Southport?
Skelmersdale
?
Stockport?
There were too many options. Closer to home perhaps?
Stalmine?
Staining?
And then I thought of where we were tonight.
St Annes
.

I’d often heard people say, “My blood ran cold,” when they were describing a chilling incident. Believe me, that didn’t even begin to describe the feeling of utter horror. I had no doubt whatsoever in my mind. The murder would take place in St Annes in — I looked at my watch; it was almost eleven p.m.; I had been at this for hours without realising how much time had passed. With little more than an hour to midnight, the murder could well have happened already. Eleven p.m. That number eleven again. Would the murderer dispense their victim with a flourish at eleven eleven p.m.? Again, I was leaping to conclusions that some might find bizarre, but I was certain that I was correct.

I knew the time, and the town, and the fact that the victim’s name contained eleven letters. Just as mine did: Ethan Hudson. And Trish Carson. And Louise James. Only Debbie of the four of us was safe. And that was purely by chance. I remembered her saying how she’d tagged her maiden name onto her husband’s name when she married Mr Home. Otherwise, she would have been Deborah Home, and would have been an eligible victim for the killer. I wondered what Julie would make of all this. She’d probably laugh at me, while secretly admiring the way I’d cracked the case. But I hadn’t cracked it, had I?

I also wondered, selfishly I suppose, why Julie hadn’t tagged my name onto her married one. Then she would have been Julie Hudson-Walton. No, it didn’t sound right, did it? Julie Walton was much better. Julie Walton. If my blood had run cold earlier, now it turned to ice.
Julie Walton
. Eleven letters. Formerly
Julie Hudson
. Also eleven letters. Even when I called her Jules, it was still eleven letters. I knew who the next victim was. My daughter. In a panic, I leapt to my feet.

“What’s up, Ethan?” asked Trish. I didn’t answer. I was frantically ringing Julie on my mobile; the phone rang, but there was no reply. I looked at my watch. Eleven p.m. exactly. If I rushed there, I might just arrive in time.

I ran all the way to the car, redialling Julie every few seconds; there was still no answer. I heard somebody running after me, but I didn’t stop to see who it was. Fortunately the roads were quiet, for I drove like a madman, ignoring the speed limit. Again and again, I redialled Julie’s number; there was still no reply. How could I have missed it? The eleven-letters connection had been there all along for me to see. My own name had eleven letters. How could I have been so blind?

And why didn’t Louise spot the connection? Or Trish? They, too, should have seen the obvious. We were all to blame. Only Debbie was innocent, thanks to her double-barrelled name. Deborah Havers-Home, I could hear her enunciating it on the first night of the class. Just as she had enunciated Amber Davore’s name when I had pronounced it incorrectly. How did she know? And how did she know that a murder would take place tonight? I’d only told Trish.

Deborah Havers-Home. D-E-B-O-R-A-H-V-S-M. Darwen-Elswick-Bolton-Ormskirk-Accrington-Heysham-Vickerstown-St Annes-Manchester. None of the previous nine suspects had all ten letters in their name. But Debbie did.
She
was the murderer. The solution had been there all the time, staring me in the face. Mocking me. And now she was going to kill my daughter. I’d even told her she was coming to visit this week. I’d invited Debbie to meet her.
I
was responsible for all this.

The traffic lights changed to red and I slammed on the brakes as traffic began moving from my left. With the sudden cessation of momentum, I took stock of the situation. None of this made any sense. Debbie had been at Louise’s with me until a few minutes ago. She hadn’t even known where Julie was staying until I’d mentioned it. Julie couldn’t possibly be the intended victim. My paternal instincts had overridden logic. The phone rang. It was Julie, sounding panic-stricken.

“What’s happened, Dad? I’ve had six missed calls from you in the last five minutes.”

“Where were you?”

“I was in the bath. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then why—?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Bye.” I hung up, and realised there were car horns sounding behind me. The lights were on green; I’d no idea how long ago they’d changed. I ignored everybody else and tried to think. Julie was safe, but somebody was still in peril. The killer was still back at the flat, along with Trish and Louise. She was going to kill one of them. I had to stop her.

I did a U-turn in the middle of the road and raced back to Louise’s. Trish was standing at the door, looking anxiously towards me.

“Where’s Debbie?” I shouted.

Trish turned a concerned look towards me. “She’s inside with Louise. I tried to come after you but you ran off. What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer; I looked at my watch just as it ticked over to 11:11. I rushed past a startled Trish and didn’t stop until I flung Louise’s bedroom door open. In the half-second it took me to see Debbie crouching over Louise, hands around her throat, I had reached the side of her bed. A strange wispy smoke had just emerged from Louise’s open mouth as I hit Debbie across the back with all the force I could muster and she fell to the floor, her ever-present satchel sliding under Louise’s bed.

“What are you doing?” screamed Trish, who had followed me into the bedroom.

“She’s the murderer,” I yelled. “It was her all along. Louise is her next victim. I think I was too late,” I added, looking at Louise’s ashen face. But as I looked, she coughed, spluttered and began to pull in huge gasping breaths of air. “All of the names, all of the places, they all match. Vera Broad. Amber Davore. Deborah Havers-Home. Sarah Moore. They all contain the same letters, the initial letters of all the places where there have been murders.”

“But how?” asked Trish. “The first one happened over a century ago.”

“I know. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. I caught her throttling Louise. That’s evidence enough, surely.”

“It’s evidence of something,” agreed Trish. “But I think you need to see a doctor if you think she’s been doing this for over a hundred years. That bang on your head must have affected you more than you thought.”

Deborah — I no longer wanted to think of her by the friendly diminutive appellation — tried to stagger unsteadily to her feet, but Trish soon put a stop to that with a well-placed kick to her back. “I never did like you, you heartless bitch. I only pretended to because Ethan liked you.”

“Go and search the cupboards for some rope,” I said. “We’ll tie her up, then call the police and ambulance.” I looked at Louise. She appeared to be unconscious, although her breathing was steadier now.

Trish was gone for quite a while, and all the time Deborah stared at me, blazing anger in her gaze. ”You think you’re so clever, don’t you? What do you expect to achieve? You can’t tell people I’ve been murdering people for over a hundred years, otherwise
you’ll
be the one they take away. All you can get me for is attacking Louise, and even if I get sent to prison for that, it will only be a short sentence. And believe me, I’ve waited a hundred years, so a little longer won’t cause me any problems. If I have to start the whole thing from scratch again, I will. I’ve learnt lessons along the way, and I’ll do it differently next time. Nobody will be any the wiser. And then I’ll finally complete my pledged task.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Why, eternal life, of course. That’s what this has all been about. Steal the life from ten individuals and merge it with my essence. I become the perfect eleven and will live forever.
You
,” she spat, “stopped me at ten, but I can start afresh on a new cycle of eleven. I’ll outlive you all, and I’ll have a lifetime to take my revenge on you and your future generations. All I need do is make another pact.”

“Is that how pacts work?” I asked. “If you haven’t fulfilled this one, aren’t there any consequences?”

Deborah just laughed at me. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

Trish opened the door and came in with a dressing-gown belt in her hands. “Sorry, I couldn’t find any rope — will this do? How is Louise, by the way?” Trish went over to check on her while I tied Deborah up securely.

“I think she’ll be all right,” she said. “There aren’t any marks round her throat.”

“Best wait till the ambulance gets here just in case,” I said.

“Damn! I was so busy looking for the rope I forgot about the 999 call. I’ll make it now.” She took her phone out. “Typical. No signal! I’ll go outside.”

Trish was away for quite a while. I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. Why was she taking so long? Then I realised; she must have gone outside the building, and she’d need somebody to let her back in. No doubt she was pressing the bell furiously but to no avail. “I’d better press the button,” I muttered. I turned to look at Deborah, to make sure she was secure. She looked older and frailer now that she’d been tied up. The bravado of her earlier words seemed to have come from a different person.

As I stared at her the clock ticked over to a new day; Thursday, December first. And Deborah began to age before my eyes. Her skin began to wrinkle, her hair turned grey. But it didn’t stop there. The degradation continued. Flesh decayed from bone and bone turned to dust. In a hundred seconds, the essence of every stolen year returned to the elements: a hundred years for Enid Rodgers, nearly ninety for Len Phillips, continuing until Alan Ingleby’s soul reclaimed its stolen eleven years.

Nothing remained of Deborah Havers-Home but a pile of grey dust and the dressing-gown belt. “You should have taken more notice of what you were signing away,” I muttered, remembering the Google search I had made.
Eleven might be a Power Number, but numerologists are also aware of its negative effects. And one of them is treachery
.

I knew that Trish was still outside. And the police would be coming too, to arrest…what? A pile of dust? They’d never believe what had happened. I went into the kitchen, took a dustpan and brush and swept up the remains of the murderer, flushing the ashes down the loo. Then I pushed the button and let Trish in.

“What the hell are you playing at? I’ve been pressing the bell for—” she yelled, before pausing as she saw me rubbing my head.

“Sorry, Trish. The belt wasn’t strong enough. She managed to get free and hit me from behind. When I came to, she’d disappeared.”

“I’m sorry, I thought it would do. What about Louise? Is she…?”

“Louise is fine. Debbie—” I forced myself to use the name “—must have just wanted to escape. Where are the police? They might be able to catch her.”

“They’ll be here in a few minutes. So will the ambulance. It’s all my fault; I shouldn’t have gone outside the building to make the call, then I might have been here to stop her.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” I said, patting her on the shoulder. “If anyone is at fault, it’s me; I’m the one she overpowered.”

***

It was after two a.m. by the time the police were satisfied. We gave them a complete description of Deborah and what she was wearing, even though I knew it would do them no good. The ambulance took Louise to hospital as they wanted to keep her under observation; she had regained consciousness before they arrived, and I knew she was going to be fine. She asked me to lock up, and handed me her door key. A police officer drove Trish home, as I said there was little point in both of us having a sleepless night; she was more than happy to be away from the scene of such violence and lunacy.

A few people had come out of the flats, eager to see why the police and an ambulance were outside. I noticed Emma amongst them. I guessed that perhaps she was living in the flats now. Gail had said she’d run off, to get away from Mike, presumably. She saw me and walked over. “What’s happened? Was that Louise?”