Thrilling, Sweet and Rotten

By Mike Brown

In the 1950's, Stan Cummings, Bill Hardy and Jimmy Buxton grew up together in the Lancashire town of Ramscliff. Their world was centred around the old cotton mills, and especially the River Irk which flows through a deep gorge in the town.
Now it is 1994. Stan and Bill are both teachers at Ramscliff High School, but Jimmy is now a Detective Sergeant in the local police force. When Stan finds a girl's body in the river, Jimmy is put in charge of the case. Two more murders follow, and Stan, who spends a lot of time down by the river, is seen as the chief suspect: initially by a hostile Chief Inspector Roger Twentyman; and, later on, by a reluctant Jimmy Buxton.
Is burnt-out history teacher Stan really the murderer? Or, as his drinking buddy Bill Hardy likes to suggest, is this another serial killer in the mould of the notorious 'Ramscliff Strangler' of the 1950's? How involved are Stan's Sixth Form students: Mark Sanderson, Felicity Barlow, Michelle Porter and Eric Watson? And what does American exchange teacher Todd Shevlin make of it all?
For nearly two months, fear walks the terraced streets of the Old Town, and along the banks of the Irk. Then, in a tragic climax at the flooded footbridge over the river, all is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481788823

Mike Brown

MIKE BROWN and Carol Harris are experts on the Second World War Home Front and co-authors of The Wartime House.

Book preview

PART ONE

PAULINE WOOD

1

August 15th, 1955. It was a sunny afternoon in the Ramscliff Gorge. To the boys swimming in the River Irk, it seemed that the good weather and the summer holidays would last for ever.

Jimmy Buxton stood on the top of the bluff looking down at the murky waters of the Irk. It was probably a drop of about twenty feet. But it always looked much higher than that.

Jimmy was waiting for his turn to jump. Already he could feel the nerves tingling. And the heaviness in the pit of his stomach. Anticipating what the boys in the gang were calling ‘the leap of death’ into the deep pool beneath the cliff. When it was your turn, you took a run at it, holding your nose and closing your eyes as you launched yourself into space. Then came the sudden cold shock of the water, as the cheers of your mates were replaced by a deathly silence.

Most times your feet would touch the cool, yielding mud of the river bed. Then came the rise to the surface, which always felt incredibly slow. The colours changing gradually from deepest black to the pale yellowy green of filtered sun light. Finally, the profound relief as your head burst clear of the water. Then you were gulping down air, and swimming madly for the safety of the bank.

As usual, Big Bill Hardy was ordering the others about. Bill was much larger and stronger than anyone else. He was known in the gang as ‘Fatty Billy’. But never to his face. Stan Cummings, next in line, looked tiny in comparison. Very thin. Ribs showing. Skimpy trunks looking about ready to slide off his hips and fall down around his ankles. And now Bill was shouting at him. Your turn, young’un. Get yourself off that fucking cliff. Now!

Jimmy Buxton retreated from the edge of the bluff. He could see that Stan was petrified. His expression was a mixture of terror and determination. Then, impelled by a push in the back from Bill, Stan hurtled towards the edge of the bluff, and leapt into the void.

Jimmy ran forward. There were widening circles in the water. But no sign of Stan. Then, after an age, Stan appeared from the depths, spluttering, and wildly waving his arms. Then he went straight down again. A phrase jumped into Jimmy’s head: ‘Not waving, but drowning.’

Bloody hell! Bill Hardy was crashing down the slope towards the river. That fuckin’ kid can’t fucking swim! Then he was wading out up to his neck, before diving under the water. Somehow, he managed to grab a thrashing Stan, and unceremoniously hauled him into the shallows. In the shocked silence, Bill could be heard muttering loudly: I saved your life, you wazack. Now fucking learn to swim. Then he turned away, leaving Stan, crouched and shivering, alone on the beach of dirty sand.

Jimmy Buxton, Bill Hardy and Stan Cummings. In 1955, they were just three young lads mucking about in the river. No way of knowing then that Stan and Bill would become best mates and drinking companions. Nor that, nearly forty years later, the three of them would be caught up in a series of brutal murders. And that Jimmy Buxton would be the Detective Sergeant leading the local team of police charged with investigating the killings. With Stan Cummings, the respected Head of History at the Ramscliff High School, as his prime suspect.

2

TODD’S JOURNAL (December, 1999). A few weeks back, I was standing in the middle of a bridge above the raging Wilson River. Below me at least a dozen elk were swimming downstream. They held their antlers high. Their nostrils were flared in panic. Their white behinds showed clear just beneath the churning surface of the water. It was quite a sight.

One small river is very like another. And when I looked down on the Wilson in flood, and saw the elk struggling to survive, I immediately thought of that other river five thousand miles away, and of the people who had died there five years earlier. Spurred into action, I went straight home, and made a start on this journal.

My name is Todd Shevlin. Just now, my home town of Tillamook on the Oregon coast is going through hard times. The main industries were logging and fishing. And they’re both in decline. But my folks are descended from good Swiss stock, and we keep dairy cattle. So we do OK. You’ll have heard of Tillamook cheese. And the ice cream at the Cheese Factory! Last time I counted there were forty six different flavors. Rocky Road is my favorite at the moment.

I’m married now, with two young kids. And I’m back on the farm, after a spell as a teacher at the local High School. But I can still remember clearly my feelings of excitement in June 1994 when the approval for my teacher exchange to England came through.

Where is this Ramscliff place, anyway? My father was dog-tired. Just in from the afternoon milking. Slumped in his chair.

Somewhere in the north of England, Pop. Near a place called Manchester.

How do you know you’ll like it there? my mother asked. Lynn Erica won’t be pleased, I know that. She’s looking for you two to get married soon.

It’s only for a year, Mom. A feller called Joe Harrison comes to teach at Tillamook High, and stays in my apartment in town. And I do the same over there. Anyway, Lynn won’t mind waiting a little longer. I followed Mom into the kitchen where she’d gone to check on a batch of chocolate cookies. Besides, they try to put you in a similar town to where you live. Though, to tell the truth, Ramscliff isn’t actually on the ocean. But the Fulbright guy said there’s a river there.

Mom took the cookies out of the oven. I love them when they’re hot. So I tried to grab one. She slapped my hand. A river, huh. Like the Colombia?

I’d laughed at that. The mouth of the Columbia was nearly five miles across. But then Mom had hardly ever travelled outside of the Pacific North West. No, Mom. Smaller than the Willamette even. More like the Wilson River, I guess.

So, what’s it called, this English river? Pop grunted heavily, pulling off his boots.

It’s called the Irk, I think. I… R… K. The Irk.

The Irk? Pop had snorted. That’s a hell of an ugly name for a river.

It’s surely not a pretty name, Mom agreed. Makes it sound dirty. Or maybe a lot of trouble ahead. Like ‘irksome’, I guess.

Now I’m not suggesting that my mother could see into the future. But, whatever it was, she was dead right. Well, partly right. Up to a point, anyway. I mean five people dead in less than two months is a lot more than just ‘irksome’. And, as you will see, all of those deaths were closely connected to the River Irk.

Yes, a whole lot went on in the Lancashire town of Ramscliff during the early winter of 1994. So, I’m sure glad I kept notes at the time. They’ll be real useful for writing up this journal now.

3

It was October 18th, 1994. A Saturday night. Cold and clear.

Leaning against the metal parapet of the footbridge, the girl was gazing down at the black surface of the River Irk. Ten minutes ago, she’d been jigging away at the High School Hop. Now the music was just a dull thud, drifting down from beyond the rim of the Gorge. There was a full moon. But the sluggish current reflected very little light. Lost in her own thoughts, the girl was completely unaware of the man emerging from the shadows.

So what are you thinking about? he asked quietly.

Jesus Christ! The girl spun around. You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack. Then, with a half-smile. Anyway, I thought I told you to piss off.

You did. He moved closer, placing a hand on her hip. But I knew you didn’t mean it. The girl said nothing. So, what were you thinking? he asked again.

The girl laughed. Oh, just how this crappy river really stinks tonight.

Oh, it’s not that bad. It’s just a bit low at the moment. Besides, I’ve always liked the smell of the Irk. We did a poem at school. Something about the river smell being ‘thrilling, sweet and rotten’.

The girl laughed. Whatever, she said with a shrug. She lifted her face as if to invite a kiss. In the moonlight, her broad face was almost beautiful.

He moved even closer. Pressed up against her now, he felt for the High School tie wrapped around her thigh. The bare flesh was cool and yielding beneath his fingertips. He imagined the imprints like dimples in the skin. Let me put this around your neck. I’ve always liked girls in uniform.

She grinned. Then the tie tightened. Too late she realized the danger. Trapped against the girders of the bridge, she was helpless. There was no way of driving her knee into his groin. Or of reaching his face with her nails. She’d done that once or twice in the past. But tonight it wasn’t going to work.

The man was enjoying this. It felt good. And it was surprisingly easy. He liked the feel of her body as it squirmed beneath his. Enjoyed hearing her moans of protest as they rose in pitch, and then gradually faded away. His breath was coming now in short, audible grunts. The distant thud of the music merged with the blood pounding in his temples. Then the girl’s face emptied of all expression, and her pupils rolled up and away as she died.

At the moment Pauline Wood died, her killer felt an intense physical release. Then, knees still trembling, he sucked in a deep satisfying draught of the river smell. It was a thrilling burst of rottenness and decay. This was his river. This was his moment.

There followed a total blank. How much time elapsed, he had no idea. Either then, or later on. When the world returned, he found he was still cradling the girl’s limp body in one arm. The other hand was holding a pocket knife, and there was blood on the blade.

He looked down at the white lifeless face. The girl’s empty staring eyes. At the blood oozing from the rough cross hacked into the lobe of her ear. You poor silly bitch, he muttered. Disgust mingled with a sudden panic. With an effort, he hoisted the dead girl up on to the parapet. Then he tumbled her over into the darkness of the river.

4

It was October 19th, 1994. A Sunday morning, and a beautiful day. Crisp and bright. From the front door of his house in Church Lane, Stan Cummings crossed the road, and started down the Breaky Neck Stairs to the river.

Stan descended stiffly, feeling his fifty two years, his right hand hovering above the safety rail. The steps were just too deep to be taken comfortably. Despite the much-vaunted cushioning on his new trainers, each drop jarred him to the hip.

Before he was half way down, he could smell the Irk, the pungent aroma trapped and magnified by the steep sides of the Gorge. Ramscliff was enjoying an unusual Indian summer, and the water level was very low. Stan’s beloved river had been reduced to a turgid stream.

The concrete walkway at the bottom hadn’t existed when Stan was a kid. The Gorge had been really wild then. Twisting sandy paths had wound through the willows when the river was low. No passage at all when the Irk was in flood.

It was a cleaner river now. But its scents still fed Stan’s nostalgia for the 1950’s. Vegetation rotting in the peat-laden, insect-drowning pools of deep black water. The pale clumps of flotsam caught in the branches along the far bank. Gorse flowers smelling incongruously of coconut. And, although the open town rubbish dump, where the gang had scavenged for match box tops, had long gone, Stan could still recall the sickly smell of mouldering refuse and soggy cardboard. And so, when people said that the sense of smell was usually the strongest basis of memory, Stan had to agree. Sometimes the smell of the River Irk brought Stan darker moods. Like it had last night after the dance. But usually he preferred to dwell on happier times: back in the days when he’d been a lad at school, and life had seemed so simple.

For Stan Cummings, through the years, the most nostalgic scent of all had always been the intoxicating perfume of the balsam. The balsam was a wondrous plant. Its seed pods were hair-triggered. Spring-loaded. Just a light touch, and the seeds would fly. And its flowers smelt of peaches. And when that peachy scent flooded the air on a velvet summer’s evening, Stan was immediately carried back to that endless summer of 1957, when, at the age of fifteen, he’d fallen in love with Julie Hindmarsh.

Julie’s convent school had been run by the Sisters of Mercy. Stan’s grammar school by the Irish Christian Brothers. In God’s plan for the Universe, the pupils of the two schools were never meant to meet. But for most of the summer holidays, Julie and Stan had met down by the river as often as they could. Hidden among the willow trees and the tall stands of rose-bay willow herb. Lying together on their coats. Gazing for hours into each other’s eyes. Julie’s freckled face turned up towards the sun. Learning to French kiss. Practising that skill a lot. And then he had ruined everything by going off to train as a catholic priest.

After a short jog downstream, Stan stopped to do some stretching. The walkway was in shadow. But the north side of the Gorge glowed warmly in the sun. Bits of glass and metal sparkled from patches of scree on the slope. Along the rim, sections of broken wall survived from a long forgotten factory. In Stan’s vivid imagination, these abandoned stands of brick still clung to the edge of the Gorge like the ramparts of a Himalayan monastery. Stan gripped the cold safety rail with both hands, and tried a cautious knee bend. The echoing crack of his joints rebounded from the cliff opposite. Stan grinned ruefully. It was certainly a long time since he’d been down here with Julie Hindmarsh.

The last time had been in 1961 when he’d come back from the catholic seminary at the age of nineteen. It was supposed to be a short holiday. But he and Julie had met again, and things had developed from there. Soon, Stan had abandoned his priestly vocation. The romantic sessions down by the Irk had been renewed after a gap of nearly four years.

Of course, the relationship had moved on in its intensity. And Stan could still remember every detail of that very special evening, when Julie Hindmarsh had become the first girl to let Stan feel her tits. The insects had been dancing above the peaty water of the Irk. The warm air had been heavy with the scent of balsam. And Julie had taken the initiative.

Julie had guided his hand beneath her blouse, for Stan (still an innocent at nineteen) had had no idea where things were anatomically. Even now he could remember how wonderful it felt, his hand sliding smoothly across the soft gorgeous curve of her breast.Reaching the nipple, which stiffened beneath his fingers. Hearing Julie’s breath coming in short exaggerated gasps. Later, limping home with an ache in his balls.

Soon Julie was offering to let him go all the way. As long as you bring something with you on Saturday. But Stan was still a good Catholic at the time, and was incapable of regarding the purchase of a packet of Durex as anything less than a mortal sin. On that Saturday afternoon, when Stan had turned up empty handed, Julie’s disappointment had been obvious. Indeed, her rage had been terrible to behold. She’d flounced off home in disgust, and the great event had never happened. Their romance was over.

With a sad shake of the head, Stan uncurled his stiffening fingers from the rail. Slowly he began to jog back upstream with the Irk on his right hand side. From above he could hear the bells of the Parish Church calling the faithful to nine o’clock communion. Stan had long given up going to church. Like the hero in Thomas Hardy’s novel ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’, he preferred ‘sermons in streams and stones’ to those in church. As he said to his mate, Bill Hardy, I’d rather be walking the moors than sitting in my best clothes listening to some ‘Holy Joe’ putting the world to rights.

When Stan reached the weir, he stopped to stretch once more. He was now about sixty yards downstream from the metal footbridge. From here, he could see the lattice work of iron girders supporting the bridge. It was an ugly structure, painted an unfortunate olive green, with most of the paint now flaking off.

When the Irk was in spate the weir was a dangerous place. The concrete wall would be completely obliterated by clouds of grey spray and churning froth. Last winter, a canoeist had died here. Stuck in a ‘stopper’, trapped in his canoe, he had gone round and round for hours, until the fire brigade retrieved his body. Bill Hardy, discussing the incident during one of their regular drinking sessions at the pub, had shown little sympathy. Fucking idiot. Who’d want to canoe in the Irk, for fuck’s sake? You could hardly call it white water. Bill had snorted, indicating a joke. One mouthful, and you’d be dead anyway.

But today much of the gnarled concrete lip was dry. The Irk, normally about thirty yards across, had shrunk. A lone heron on the far side regarded Stan reproachfully, as if blaming him for the state of the river. There was an upturned shopping trolley coated with river weed. Beer cans trapped in the shallows. As Stan watched, an empty cigarette packet floated by, revolving slowly in the sluggish current. Then a used condom, pale and wrinkled like an empty sausage skin. Probably a couple of Sixth Formers shagging down here after the Saturday night dance. Or more likely that slightly older blond bitch who’d been dancing with Mark Sanderson.

Stan smiled wryly. Why did he always think about sex when he was down by the Irk? Julie Hindmarsh was just one girl on Stan’s list of missed opportunities. And Bill Hardy was always saying that what a man regrets most are the things he didn’t do when he was young. Usually, when Bill played philosopher, Stan would tell him he was ‘full of shit’. But, in the matter of Julie’s virginity,