STILL WATERS - David Jackson

This is David's attempt at a murder story

Lying on my bed looking up at the ceiling, I think back to that morning when the Police Land Rover pulled up outside my house. I sat quietly alongside the CID sergeant as we drove up the moorland tracks, exchanging just a few brief words as we walked the last half mile to the tarn.

I could see the blue plastic sheet at the water’s edge and the group of forensics, uniforms and paramedics standing around it. They turned to watch as the sergeant and I made the long climb from the forest track below.
As we stood by the pool, a uniformed constable pulled back the sheet covering her.
I looked down at the body of my wife, then looked up at the sergeant.
‘Looks like she came up here for a swim….,’ he began. Then he noticed my expression, ‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
‘It’s my wife,’ I replied, ‘we’ve been separated years, but …..’
The sergeant looked stunned, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.  I’m really sorry, sir, it must be a shock…..’
I looked at him, ‘Could you give me a moment alone? Just a moment.’

Five minutes later I re-joined the others.

The Forensics Officer broke the silence, ‘Looks straightforward, she got cramp in the cold water, got into trouble. No-one to help, she drowned. There’s been a spate of these accidents in this long hot spell.  We can bag her up now. I’ll do the PM this afternoon, we’ll be more certain then. You’ll have my report tomorrow.’
 ‘What about this, Sarge?’ asked one of the uniforms, holding up an old rubber ground-sheet. The sergeant hardly glanced at it, ‘just something left by a camper, I expect.’
‘Come on, Tom,’ I said to the sergeant, ‘we can leave this to the uniforms. I need a drink.’
Tom shouted, ‘Chief Inspector says to wrap it up. We’re off.’
The day passed, there were routines to follow, paperwork to do. The rest of the station gave me lots of space, whether from consideration or superstition, I don’t know. I left early, and made my way back to the stone built terrace on the edge of town where I’ve lived for the past ten years. 

Her letter had come a week or so before, another demand, another £1,000, ‘pay up or else’. It was the final straw.

So I headed up to the moors and hid myself on the edge of a small copse. From there I finally spotted her bright red anorak, as she walked briskly along the path, heading for the mountain tarn. 
I got there before her, concealing myself in the rocks above the pool.  
Standing by the water’s edge, she dropped her rucksack, shed her coat and removed her clothing. I watched as she entered the cold clear water and dived beneath the surface.
I moved silently to the far side of the pool, then spread out the old rubber mat I’d used as a groundsheet in my wild camping days. I stripped to my trunks and sat down on the mat and waited.
When she surfaced, she saw me sitting there.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Same as you. Want me to leave?’
‘Suit yourself, stay or go, doesn’t bother me,’ she said. And she floated off on her back, her face away from me, ignoring my presence.
I lowered myself into the water, drawing the groundsheet after me, and swam towards her. I threw the sheet over her head and forced her under the surface. I held her under until she stopped struggling. Then I released her, and gently steered the body out towards the centre of the tarn. The groundsheet was a neat touch, no tell-tale bruising on her body for forensics to find.
Drying myself at the edge of the pool, the skies began to darken and as I reached my car it began to rain.

Within an hour I was back in the office, chatting to my colleagues, taking phone calls, the start of a normal day.

I had to kill her. She’d never have given me a divorce. I’d never have been free. And all that money she demanded every month. I just couldn’t pay any more. Not with….

It was a week before a hiker discovered the body.

The day after Tom and I made that climb to the tarn, I sat on my old worn sofa. ‘It’s over,’ I thought, ‘at last it’s over’.

Then came the knock at the door…