The Swimming Club by Rachel McLean, book 1 in the Jurassic Coast Mysteries series - Chapter 1

“Oh!”

Annie Abbott hesitated as the cold water of Lyme Regis Bay reached her waistline.

By now, she should have got used to this, but every morning she came down here, it took her by surprise.

The dreaded ‘oh’ zone, as she called it.

She squeezed her eyes shut and waded a little further out. She could do this. In fact, once she was fully immersed, it would be bliss.

“Swim!” came a voice from up ahead. Her friend – acquaintance maybe, Annie wasn’t sure – Rosamund, never the slightest bit fazed by the water temperature.

“You can do it, Annie!” Another voice from behind: her friend Helen, still in the shallows but always encouraging.

Rosamund turned away and swam out towards the buoys, oblivious to Annie’s pain and carving a smooth crawl through the waters of the bay.

Go for it, Annie told herself. Do it.

Annie grinned, or it may have been a grimace, she wasn’t entirely sure, and ducked down to bring her shoulders under the water.

“Oh!”

There it was again. The cold-water shock, but not quite as bad this time.

She smiled. Now she had it. The perfect way to begin a morning in her beloved hometown, even with the initial pain. This would make her feel alive for the rest of the day. Not that it took much to make Annie Abbott feel alive.

She swam out past the end of the harbour wall, waving to other swimmers as she went and racing Helen, who’d somehow overtaken her and was almost out as far as Rosamund now.

Annie pulled in regular breaths, timing her strokes with the habit of someone who’d done this for a while – not the decades of some of the other women here, but long enough. At last, she was with the other two.

“Well done,” called Rosamund. “Every time I imagine you’re going to chicken out and go back onto the beach.”

Helen barked out a laugh. “Our Annie, never!” She threw Annie a wink. “You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

Perfect.

She swam on, almost to the line of orange buoys that were always their goal, and tipped onto her back to float and enjoy the early summer sunshine in her face.

She pulled in a deep breath and felt her body relax.

A splash interrupted her calm: Rosamund, approaching with precise, powerful strokes. She paused, stretched her long neck and peered towards the shore. “I see she’s sticking it out.”

“Who?”

“That odd young woman with the silly name.”

Rosamund turned in the water, all elegance and grace as usual. “See you back on the beach.”

Annie allowed herself a few more minutes’ floating – it really was bliss, with the bright shapes of the beach in the distance and the waves bobbing her up and down – then headed for shore.

When she arrived, Rosamund was standing by the harbour wall, hopping on one leg.

“You alright, love?” Annie said.

Rosamund shook her head. She was wincing and blood was pouring from her left foot.

“Oh. That’s not good.”

Helen had an arm out to support Rosamund. “That’s it, darling. You’re doing swimmingly. No pun intended.”

Rosamund let out a gasp.

“What happened?” Annie asked.

Helen turned to her. “Not sure. She can barely speak.”

“Trod on something.” Rosamund’s lips were pale and tight. “Bloody hurts.”

Annie had never heard Rosamund swear before.

Rosamund managed to hop further onto the beach. Annie crouched down behind her and peered under her foot. Ouch.

“You’ve stepped on a razor clam.”

A piece of straight, broken shell was embedded lengthwise in the sole of Rosamund’s foot.

“That must hurt like buggery,” Annie said.

Rosamund gasped. “It does.”

Slowly, the four of them moved up the beach to the promenade, Helen on one side, Annie on the other, and young Figgy flapping about behind.

At the steps, Rosamund leaned on the railings, looked down at her foot, and groaned.

Annie peered at it. Should she pull the thing out? It was hardly a mortal wound, but it was possible the jagged shell was plugging the injury. Maybe pulling it out would make things worse.

Rosamund eyed her. “You’re not pulling it out,” she said.

“Probably wise. But you’re going to have to go to the hospital.”

Annie turned to Figgy, who’d fetched a towel to drape over Rosamund’s shoulders. “Go to the Kiosk. See if they have a first aid kit.”

“Don’t tell Cameron,” grunted Rosamund as the young woman ran off. Her twenty-year-old son worked at the Kiosk. Figgy nodded.

“Where’s your car?” Annie asked her.

“Cobb Gate,” said Helen. “Her usual spot.”

Rosamund shook her head. “I can’t drive with this in my foot.”

Annie raised her eyebrows at Helen.

“I can’t drive it,” Helen said. “It’s an automatic. I’ve watched her. It’s like flying a spaceship.”

“You are not crashing my car,” grunted Rosamund.

“I don’t want to.”

A woman in an orange baseball cap and apron emerged from the Kiosk carrying a green first aid case. She took one look at the foot and said, “Hospital.”

“Yes,” said Annie. “We’re just debating who can operate Rosamund’s car.”

The woman shook her head. “My car’s just there. I’ll run you to the medical centre. You got another towel? I don’t want blood on my foot mats.”

With one of Annie’s towels cradled under Rosamund’s foot to catch the blood, the group moved over to a Peugeot parked on the promenade. Helen got into the back with Rosamund.

“Keys,” said Annie, holding out her hand to Rosamund. “We need to move your car. I’ll drive it. Figgy will supervise.”

“Thanks, ladies,” said Rosamund with a weak smile. “Keys are in my lime green tote, on the wall down there.”

Annie gave her a reassuring smile. “They’ll soon fix you right up, lovely. We’ll take care of your things for you.”

The Peugeot pulled away.

“Right,” said Annie. “Let’s fly this spaceship.”

“You’re sure you can do it?” Figgy asked. She’d been quiet throughout the whole incident and seemed almost scared of Rosamund.

“I can give it my best shot,” Annie said. “Don’t have much choice, do I?”

Figgy nodded and followed her to the Cobb Gate car park, which was at the eastern end of the promenade.

“I think parking’s only free at the Cobb Gate before eight, so we might need to get a wiggle on. Don’t want to anger the parking gods.”

They retrieved Rosamund’s bag and strolled along the Marine Parade towards the wedge of car parking at the Cobb Gate.

In front of the Kiosk, a wary customer moved away from the counter, cradling her purchase and glaring at a seagull circling above.

“Bloody thieves, those gulls,” Annie noted.

“They do put up warning signs,” said Figgy, pointing one out.

“And some people still try to get refunds if they’ve been targeted.”

“Oh, I know,” said Figgy. “Cameron told me.”

Annie narrowed her eyes at the younger woman. “So this Cameron…?”

Figgy was blushing.

Annie winked. “Ah, just friends, then?”

Figgy dropped her gaze, smiling. “I don’t know.”

Young love was a wonderful thing. Horrible, stressful and awkward, but wonderful, nonetheless.

“Well,” said Annie, “I hope Cameron gives the refund-hunters short shrift. It’s not like anyone can control the seagulls, is it?”

Figgy nodded. “There’s one that comes round my caravan. I swear it can tell the time; it knows all my routines.”

Annie wondered what sort of routine might interest a seagull. Did it watch her alarm clock, waiting until she was due to wake up, then do the job itself?

“Bin day can be hard work,” said Figgy, putting an end to Annie’s speculation.

“I bet it’s a proper nuisance.”

Figgy frowned. “It’s like it’s my nemesis, but also my pet.”

“Complicated, then?”

A laugh. “Oh, yes.”

They reached the car park, an area below the main road up and out of town, where a dozen or so cars could park in a circle.

“D’you know which one’s Rosamund’s?” Figgy asked.

“It’ll be something swanky, I’ll bet.” Annie fished the keys out of the tote bag and pressed the fob. “Looks like it’s an Audi.”

Figgy pointed. “Over there.”

It was indeed swanky. Annie and Figgy walked over to an SUV the steel grey of a rain-heavy sky.

“Oh,” said Figgy.

“What?”

Figgy was peering inside. “Is someone in there? Rosamund never said…” She frowned at Annie.

Annie followed her gaze. In the front passenger seat, shadowed by the high stone wall above, was a man.

“Well, this might be a bit awkward,” she said. “I guess this is Rosamund’s hubby.”

“You know him?”

Annie blew out her cheeks. “I don’t even know what his name is. She doesn’t talk about him much.”

“What do we do?”

“We do what we came here to do. At least we can tell him what’s happened to Rosamund.”

She tapped on the tinted window, but the man didn’t respond. Now that she was up close, she could see he was asleep.

She tapped harder.

“Don’t wake him,” hissed Figgy.

“We have to wake him.”

“D’you think he’s ill?”

“He might be drunk,” mouthed Annie, trying not to sound judgmental. “Maybe he needs a bit of a prod.”

She eased open the door so that she could reach in and shake the man’s shoulder, but his weight shifted sideways. She found herself having to catch hold of him before he toppled out of the car.

It was only then, as she shouldered him back into an upright position, that she noticed the wound on the top of his head.

“Oh, hell!” She backed away from the man and the open door, grasping for her young friend’s hand. “Figgy, what’s…?”

Figgy had her free hand pressed to her mouth. She looked back at Annie, reflecting her fear back at her.

“Is he…?” she whispered.

Annie nodded. “I think you’re right. Oh my God Figgy, Rosamund’s got her dead husband in her car.”