Oscar (Complete)

Beach. Sand. Wind. Froth. Pier. Screams.

“Well it’s too bloody cold a day to be working if you ask me.”
Detective Constable Roy David ‘Willow’ Harvard shook his head with distaste at the weather and tried to blow his hands warmer forgetting he had a burning cigarette hanging from his lower lip. Swearing loudly he plunged his palm into the icy sand and tried to think about the line of witnesses in front of him.
Drownings were utter wastes of police resources and time that could be better spent catching criminals or sitting in cosy English pubs. Drownings happen by accident; if you’re going to kill someone it’s much quicker, easier and most of all warmer, to shoot.

Dave was a stockbroker. I suppose, all considered, Dave still probably is a stockbroker, but not at this narrative time. He liked small moving green numbers and low oil prices. The other thing Dave particularly enjoyed was his early morning beach walk.
At precisely 6:24am on the morning we speak of, Dave’s alarm went off. He set it each night to the price of his favourite business’s shares before praying that they never got down below four dollars.
Soon after, Dave was moving briskly, as almost all stockbrokers do, trudging into the wind. A car or two sped past and he pretended the numberplates were share prices to keep his brain in gear, when suddenly his pensive thoughts of charts and dollar signs were interrupted by a screaming naked man.

Detective Constable Roy David ‘Willow’ Harvard noted these things down.

Patrick drove a re-make of a 1964 MG-B. Again, he probably still does. At 6:24am this winter morn he was pulling into the almost empty car park adjacent to the beach he frequented. Despite the cold, he stripped off down to his swimming trunks and started jogging along the beach towards the pier.
When he got to his favourite sand dune, which he could tell by the fat tree nearby, he put down his towel and gym bag and dived into the churning surf. Sufficiently cooled, Patrick walked back to his possessions as another early morning fitness freak ran past.
Almost ten seconds later Patrick heard the screams from just beyond the end of the pier.
“Oscar! Oscar! NOOO OSCAR!!!!”
Knowing someone was in danger of drowning, and not being fit enough or stupid enough to try and swim the whole length of the pier himself, Patrick sprinted towards his car, leaving his wet bathers and towel far behind, shouting for help and wishing he’d remembered his mobile phone.

Detective Constable Roy David ‘Willow’ Harvard noted these things down also.

Oscar was the state billiards champion. He’s not now, but he was. He had just finished his morning run along the beach and was driving home when a couple of police cars doing about 130 hauled him to the side of the road, sirens blaring and all.
A man had seen him running from the direction of the pier just before 7:00am.
“Yes officer, that’s right, why?”
The policemen then explained to him how a drowning person had been spotted near the pier where he was running, and how luckily a stockbroker had remembered his numberplate, and how perhaps he could help them as one of only a few witnesses in the area.
When Oscar told the officers his name though, their attitude changed very quickly, and their request for help was accompanied by handcuffs.

Detective Constable Roy David ‘Willow’ Harvard noted all of this down too.
Then he surveyed the three men and looked around the beach which was now milling with police and interested bystanders. He locked his jaw and ground his teeth and stared each of the gentlemen in the eyes, but he wasn’t really looking at them.
In all his clichéd years of being the grizzly British Detective he had learnt that you just didn’t throw someone off a pier to kill them. But he’d also learnt that you can’t ignore such open and shut facts.
He tried to roll himself another cigarette but the tobacco kept blowing away.
“Look, despite your proclamations of innocence Oscar, I’m afraid things look pretty dire for you right now.”

“Sir!” shouted a young forensic police something constable etc. “We’ve discovered some items behind a large tree on the sand dune over there. Clothing, wallet, and passport – we think it’s the victim’s. French tourist, young, female, attractive… no sign of a body yet.”
“Excellent. Oscar – do you know anything about these items?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir.”
“Well you’re all going to have to come down to the station and give… wait… did you say French?”
The young officer looked confused for a moment. Then: “Oh! The victim – yes. Whoever owns the things was travelling on a French passport.”
“Who speaks French around here?”
Dave tentatively put up his hand and said, “I lived there for six months or so.”
“Dave, how do you say ‘Help’ in French?”
“Um… Au Secours.”
“Au Secours.” Detective Constable Roy David ‘Willow’ Harvard looked tremendously sad for a moment and then started to laugh. “Au Secours. You just don’t kill someone by throwing them off a pier!”
His laugh boomed out across the whole beach.
“Go home! Get warm, all of you. Policemen, we’re going to an English pub.”