FREESTYLE
A short story of 1100 words
© David Lowe, April 1992
'Look Mrs Wendell,' said Detective Sergeant Grieve. 'We both know why you're here. You were the only one anywhere near him when it happened. You must have seen something.'
Across the table in the interview room sat an overweight middle-aged woman with wispy hair. Her face looked like it could remember being beautiful, but she wore her clothes without pride, and clutched her hands together tightly in her lap, fingernails cut short.
The detective fumbled to open a new pack of cigarettes. At last he got one out and lit up, watching the woman through the smoke. She did not meet his eyes.
'Please Mrs Wendell, try to remember. Anything.'
The woman closed her eyes.
Dive. Kick. Breathe. Blue freedom. Weightlessness and grace. Stroke. Kick. Breathe. The black stripe of the bottom falling away as she swam towards the deep end.
'I'm sorry Mr Grieve,' she said. 'I don't remember.'
The detective's face was sallow in the greenish neon light. He needed a shave. Mrs Wendell glanced up at him once before pushing her chair back a few inches, fishing for something in her bag.
'Do you go to the pool often Mrs Wendell?'
The woman's hands returned to her lap. 'Every now and again.'
'The attendant told us you go there practically every night. Is that true?'
'I like to swim,' said the woman defensively. 'Is there something wrong with that?'
'Not at all.'
A pause.
'So you'd seen the victim before, then?' asked Grieve.
'No.'
'We have witnesses who say they saw Mr Bates at the pool regularly. At night. Same time as you. Are you sure you're not mistaken?'
Mrs Wendell shook her head.
Suddenly the young detective by the door sneezed. Glowing VU meters on the recording equipment quivered. Grieve turned around and glared. The young man shrugged apologetically.
A smile teased the corners of the woman's mouth.
Mrs Wendell's husband didn't like her going to the pool. Said it made her taste of chlorine. As if he'd know.
Stroke. Kick. Breathe. Cool water around her like a cloak. Stroke. Kick. Breathe.
The detective reached into his briefcase. He pushed a photo across the table. Mrs Wendell shivered as she glanced at it. A big, bull-necked man with a crewcut, drinking beer from the bottle.
Every second day for a month he had been there, powering up and down the pool, splashing across the lanes. A muscular man. Proud of his body. Just like her own husband, in the beginning.
'I'm sorry Mr Grieve. There are many such men. I do not know the face.'
'You didn't see Mr Bates that night?'
'No.'
'Or any other night?'
'No. I like to concentrate on my stroke.'
'Your stroke. I see.' Grieve ran one hand through his balding hair and stubbed out his cigarette.
'What about before you went swimming that night Mrs Wendell. Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the pool? Anyone unusual?'
The girl. Crying. In the changeroom. Pulling on an old-fashioned one piece swimming costume as the older woman came in. A glimpse of fresh bruises and faded scars across the girl's back, before the swimsuit covered the evidence.
'I'm sorry Mr Grieve. I saw nothing unusual.'
The detective stood up.
'Mrs Wendell. Forgive me for keeping on at you like this, but I find it hard to believe you saw nothing at all. Let me recap what we already know. You were in the same pool as this man Bates, at the very time he was being murdered.' Grieve ticked off his fingers by way of emphasis. 'The victim - Bates - wasn't a helpless weakling. We're talking about a man who played football. An ex-boxer! Even a professional killer couldn't have done a job like that silently. And the guy who did it must have been in the pool. With you. With him. There had to have been some kind of struggle. And you're telling me you didn't hear or see anything?'
Stroke. Kick. Breathe. Turn. Into the rhythm now. On the other side of the pool, the big man sending a chop across the lanes. An underwater light. Broken. In the far corner of the pool. Each tile on the bottom perfectly clear through her goggles.
'I'm sorry Mr Grieve, I heard nothing.'
The detective sipped at cold coffee and frowned. 'I could show you some other photographs Mrs Wendell. The ones we took after the event. They're not very pleasant. Strangulation is not a photogenic way to die.'
'I'm sure it isn't.'
'But you won't talk to me.'
'I've been talking to you for over an hour Mr Grieve.'
Stroke. Kick. Breathe. Time for a rest at the side of the pool. On the other side of the pool, the big man, also resting, barely sparing her a glance. Suddenly, out of the shadows, another figure. A girl. The big man surprised. They know each other's names. The girl smiles, slips into the water beside him. She strips off her one piece costume, laughing. Swims down into the corner, where the underwater light is broken. The man follows, excited and confused. The girl playfully caressing him with the swimming costume, giggling. The man grabbing her in his arms.
Grieve searched the woman's face.
'You're quite sure Mrs Wendell. Nothing?'
Underwater. The girl caressing the man. Unaware of their audience. A game. The girl forcing the man to hold his breath. Longer. Longer. Longer. Her swimming costume dangled around his throat. Tantalising him.
A change in mood.
The swimsuit like a rope now, twisted and clenched tight. The girl's legs pinning the big man's arms to his chest. A struggle. The swimsuit like a wire, cutting into straining skin. Hard lines of anger in the girl's face, lit by reflections from the water. All pretence gone now. A final wrench on the man's throat. Bubbles. The man limp, lungs empty, falling to the bottom. The girl unwinding the swimming costume calmly. Pulling it back over her lithe body. Climbing out. Slowly walking away.
'I cannot remember anything I have not already told you Mr Grieve,' said Mrs Wendell.
Grieve stood and turned off the tape. The detective ushered the woman to the door.
'Thank you for your time Mrs Wendell.'
This time the woman answered his gaze. 'That's all right Mr Grieve. I'm just sorry I couldn't have been of more help.'
In the neon-lit foyer of the police station the evening duty sergeant was not at his desk. Mrs Wendell stepped into the revolving door, made a mirror by the night beyond. For a moment she leaned in close to the glass, turning her face into the light, checking her foundation. No, the old scar could not be seen.
As the door swung her out into the cold night, Mrs Wendell shivered once, and walked away.© David Lowe, April 1992