Free Who Wants to Live Forever? by Steve Wilson

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