Sadly, Inspector Crothers does not feel the same way about seeing Diane. In fact, seeing the amateur sleuth, again, is making him feel a little shirty.
“We very much appreciate you calling the police Mrs. Dimbleby,” says Inspector Crothers, gently pulling her a good distance away from the scene.
“Surely we’re on a first-name basis by now, Darrell. Call me Diane,” she grins. “How old are your dear children now?”
“We’ll take it from here,” says the inspector, ignoring her air of familiarity.
“But I need to tell you what I’ve observed. I saw the deceased leaning against the tree at least an hour ago on my way to the grocer’s… and then I realized he was dead on the way back! And I just live right over there, almost directly across the way.”
“And home is where you should be right now. You’ve had enough of a shock for one day. You need to leave it to the professionals now.”
Inspector Crothers urges Diane to return to her cottage to have a nice cup of tea. Diane’s stomach is grumbling, and she would really like to sit down to a cuppa, but she feels like she is a prime witness to at least this stage of the case.
If there is a case, that is. The man could have died of natural causes. But could this have possibly been a murder?
“Have you determined the cause of death?” asks Diane, a little less pleasantly this time.
Inspector Crothers picks up her groceries from the ground and asks a police constable to help her carry them to her cottage.
“Thank you for your time Mrs. Dimbleby… uh, thank you Diane,” he says, trying to appease the wannabe detective.
“I’m going, I’m going,” she says. “But I’ll be expecting your call! I have an important statement to make.”
Diane then thanks the constable but assures him she is quite capable of toting her groceries the short distance home.
Chapter 2
Diane slams the cupboard door after putting away the dry goods she bought earlier that afternoon. She is no longer in the mood to bake brownies. Not even the heavenly redolence of baking chocolate squares can cheer her up.
Surely Inspector Darrell Crothers knows he needs to ask Diane exactly what she saw. His constables are, at this very moment, taking witness statements from all the families and couples and friends who had been spending their time enjoying the lovely day on the green. Lovely day for all, except one poor gent.
He doesn’t like an old biddy like me poking my nose into his investigation, thinks Diane. She has certainly helped the inspector close a case or two in the past though. Although he had never directly thanked her for her insight or for her clue detection talent, he has, at least unconsciously, understood that she is much more than a nosy busybody getting in the way of a criminal inquiry.
Diane sighs, her frustration beginning to wane. After all, she can certainly understand why Darrell, or any other detective for that matter, has to be cautious when it comes to civilians getting involved. Just be patient Diane—he’ll come around.
She turns on the cooker, places the kettle on the front burner and drops a couple of teabags into her teapot. “A cup of tea would restore my normality,” says Diane, quoting Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy.
Feeling much calmer now, Diane sits at her desk in the front room. She looks out the window to see a uniformed officer questioning Henry, the husband and father who had been quite shaken up when he first realized there was a dead body in his midst. Now he appears much more at ease, even quite gallant, as he animatedly describes his account to the constable.
Diane stares at the mystery man, now a corpse, still leaning against the oak tree. She can see Darrell crouching down beside him; the inspector is staring at the man as if he is looking straight into his eyes. Except this man’s eyes are closed up nice and tight.
The oak tree is directly across the street.
Diane had been at her desk writing most of the day. She hadn’t noticed this stranger walk up to the tree or anybody else for that matter. Did he walk there? Diane shakes her head. If she had only looked up from her computer and turned her head slightly, she might have seen the poor fellow’s arrival and even how he died.
But when Diane writes, nothing can drag her away from the scene she is describing, from the feelings and the grizzly details which she is imagining or recalling.
The kettle is whistling. Diane goes back to the kitchen and pours the boiling water inside her teapot. The steamy water becomes a tawny brown liquid. As the tea steeps, Diane traces the most pronounced wrinkle on her right hand, a habit of hers while in deep thought.
She tries to remember what he looked like. The man had been quite pale. And there had been something else—something that had caught her eye. Was it a dark spot on his shirt? Diane might have noticed such a spot, figuring it to be a stain from his lunch. But she couldn’t be sure.
If she had seen a stain, could it have been blood? She still didn’t know how he had died. Poor bloke could have died peacefully in his sleep. That wouldn’t have been a bad way to go—curled up with a book, under a tree that had been there for many generations, on such a beautiful spring day.
Diane sits back at her desk with her cup of tea. Outside she sees two men in white crime scene suits carrying an elongated black bag. One is holding the head, the other the toe of the heavy duty duffel. Will they be performing a post-mortem?
Taking a sip of tea, Diane turns back to her computer. She opens a new Word document and types “June 2, 2015; 3:00pm,” to start her witness statement for the police. She proceeds to describe the minute details of the afternoon, zeroing in on her observations of the gentleman in passing and up close.
Just as Diane is about to explain how she checked to see if the fellow had been breathing, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll be right there Darrell,” calls Diane, without looking up. She knew he was going to show up sometime before sunset.
Opening the door, Diane sees quite a different expression on Darrell’s face: his facial appearance is part bashful, part nonchalant, rather than of a stern headmaster like when they conversed earlier in the day.
“How did you know it was me at the door?” asks Darrell.
Diane simply smiles and invites him in. “Would you like a cuppa? It is still hot.”
Darrell nods his head and heads to the front window. His face breaks into a smile. He can clearly see the crime scene—the oak tree and its surroundings—directly from the front window of Diane’s cottage.
Still smiling, he sits down on the sofa and accepts the cuppa from Diane.
“Just a little milk, if I remember correctly, Darrell?”
“Uh yes… thank you… Mrs… uh… Diane,” he says gently.
Diane begins to see the inspector’s true compassionate side again—that devotion of his to protect society, and each individual victim, from the evils and horrors of this world.
Perhaps those evils or horrors have finally reached Apple Mews.
“Diane,” Darrell continues. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, happen around the oak tree before you left your cottage this afternoon?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Were you sitting there at all today?” the inspector asks, pointing at her desk with the computer sitting on top, along with pens and pencils, a notepad, her glasses and a thick volume titled Oxford Dictionary of Law.
“Yes, I was sitting there practically the whole day,” says Diane.
“And you didn’t see a thing?” Darrell asks, a slight irritation permeating his tone.
That didn’t last long, thinks Diane regarding his amiable nature.
“If I sat there staring out the window all the time, of course I would have seen something, and probably something crucial,” she says. “But I rarely sit there to watch people. I’m there working and writing my novel...
“… And when I’m writing, I’m transported to the very scene that I’m describing,” Diane muses. “Sometimes it feels like I’m not here at all when I’m d
eep in one of my writing sessions.”
“Uh huh,” says Darrell, not quite certain he understands, but confident Diane is telling the truth.
“And,” the inspector continues, “did you recognize the man when you approached him?”
“I have never laid eyes on him before, poor bloke,” Diane says, shaking her head, eyes down.
“And to your knowledge, does the name Paul Tucker ring any bells?”
Diane thinks back to the vast number of people she’s met throughout her life: David’s colleagues in London, her friends and cousins now living near and far, the people she’s met through travels and the cultural activities and volunteering she’s done all around the county, the decades of students she taught…
“I can’t say I’ve ever met a Paul Tucker,” she says. “Is that who—”
“Well, I must be off. Thanks so much for the cuppa,” interjects Darrell.
The inspector carefully places the English bone china cup on the coffee table and starts to stand.
“Wait!” shouts Diane, startling the inspector into sitting again. “Just two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”
She runs back to her computer and begins typing again at top speed.
Darrell sits back down. His eyes wander back to the teacup. He hadn’t noticed before, but the cup and saucer had an unusual pattern—not of roses or lilacs, but of round-leaved sundew.
The round-leaved sundew—Drosera rotundifolia. The inspector is quite adept at identifying local plant species, as well as bird songs and animal tracks. He had grown up spending practically all of his waking hours outside, and he adored the countryside. His father had been a farmer and Darrell had nearly followed in his footsteps. But fate had other ideas…
Even though the round-leaved sundew is Shropshire’s county flower, the red, hairy leaves seem a strange theme for a teacup, as does the plant’s carnivorous nature.
I will catch the killer, just like the sundew catches insects.
The inspector’s daydreaming is interrupted by the sound of Diane’s printer. She removes two sheets from the dispenser tray and passes it to Darrell.
“My official witness statement,” says Diane.
“Thanks again for the cuppa,” he says, folding the statement and placing it in his suit jacket pocket.
Walking towards his second-hand Range Rover, Darrell sees that the village green is eerily abandoned, save for the yellow police tape surrounding the old oak tree. A few villagers are still congregated outside their homes in whispers, wondering who the strange man is and how he died.
Before Darrell starts the engine of his Range Rover, he rings his wife, Claire. He lets her know not to wait for him for dinner, but that he’ll be home in time to read goodnight stories to their little ones.
Darrell doesn’t like to miss family dinners—and he makes an effort to be home for these more often than not—but this evening he has to go back the Shrewsbury Police Station and meet with the medical examiner.
The inspector slowly drives by the villagers still outside, nodding his head. They gaze back with curious, or perhaps fearful, expressions.
Is our village no longer safe?
Over the metal bridge crossing the river, and around two bends, and Darrell is once again driving on the trunk road back to Shrewsbury. If he had been with Claire and their children Jeremy and Chloe, he would have enjoyed taking them on the scenic drive. But he has to take the quickest route today—he doesn’t like to waste time when he’s on a case.
Of course most people, except for a few of his colleagues, don’t know there is, in fact, a case—a case of murder. Not even Diane knows yet, although Darrell suspects her instincts are telling her there is a criminal element to the man’s fateful demise.
Based on their conversation, Darrell has established that Diane has never seen the victim, Paul Tucker, before today, and that she does not remember knowing anybody with that name.
Darrell had found a wallet in the victim’s pocket—presumably it belonged to him. Inside the wallet, he had found a driver’s license belonging to a Paul Tucker who had a Sheffield address. The license picture looked a lot like the victim, although it is sometimes difficult to tell accurately when one’s eyes are shut and skin is pale.
Although Diane had seen Mr. Tucker leaning against the tree on her way to the grocer, and then again upon returning home when she discovered that he was dead, she has no idea how or why he happened to be sitting under the oak tree. She has no idea yet…
My instincts tell me that I’ll need Diane’s help with this case too. Darrell shakes his head, half annoyed, half charmed.
Upon arriving at the police station, he immediately sees Dr. William Jackson waiting for him in the entryway. He sees that look in the medical examiner’s eyes—a look he’s seen only seen a couple of times. It’s a look that means this is no ordinary case.
“I think you’d better come down to the lab with me,” says Dr. Jackson.
Darrell, as fit as he is, practically has to jog to keep up with the pathologist’s pace.
“What’s going on William?” asks the inspector.
“Looking at the victim on the scene on the village green, I had my suspicions,” says the medical examiner. “But I couldn’t be sure until I brought him back to the lab.”
The sterile white walls of the corridor lead them into the equally sterile white-walled autopsy room. The lab is lit by invasively bright fluorescent lights. The smell of formaldehyde enters Darrell’s nostrils as they pass by two empty silver autopsy tables to reach the last one where Paul Tucker is lying.
The victim is lying on his back and his clothes have been removed. Darrell looks down to see several lacerations across his torso. The majority are roughly sewn or stapled shut, except for one.
Darrell is speechless, staring at the long, deep gash that is only partially sealed. The skin surrounding the laceration is blood-stained. Slippery structures that only an anatomical expert could name precisely can be seen with a quick glance through the open cavity.
“So is the cause of death exsanguination?” Darrell asks. It is quite obvious a person could bleed to death from such a gouge. “And that means he did not die where Diane… er, Mrs. Dimbleby found him because there are no significant blood pools at the scene.”
“Yes, you are correct, but that’s not all,” says Dr. Jackson. “I’ve performed an ultrasound on him to be certain. I did not want to reopen the incisions until you saw them first. His kidneys and liver are missing.”
“Crikey!” shouts Darrell. “And based on these gashes and staples and things, by missing, we’re probably assuming stolen!?!”
“Rightly so,” says Dr. Jackson. “It looks like the organ thieves tried to close up all of the incisions, but poor Mr. Tucker bled out before they finished suturing.”
Darrell is simply disgusted. In the 15 or so years he’s served as a copper and risen up the ranks from Trainee Investigator to Detective Inspector, he’s seen an awful lot. He’s dealt with addicts who have overdosed on the streets or in their depressing one-room homes shared with other junkies. He’s been the lead detective in cases of brutal stabbings, shootings, murder-suicides... he’s even had his heart broken a number of times dealing with domestic abuse cases—the hardest times have been when children are involved.
He had also been the main witness to a fatal hit-and-run, back when he was in high school. Except that was personal. His best friend had been the victim. It was the reason why Darrell joined the police force; why he decided not to become a farmer like his father.
And to this day, investigators have not—he has not—found the driver responsible for killing his best mate. Darrell can still see, clear to this day, the car slam into Peter. He remembers the sound of the impact of the vehicle striking against the flesh and bones of his innocent friend. And then he remembers running up to Peter lying on the ground, and his friend is so quiet, so still…
Yes, Darrell has seen a lot in his 36 years of life. But illegal organ harvesting?
This is a first for him. He had wondered whether organ theft was even real or an urban legend instead. But here it is, a case right here in the county of Shropshire, and the body was found in the one of the safest villages in the country, Apple Mews!
“Nobody… nobody… deserves to die like this,” says Darrell.
“Has anyone spoken to his next-of-kin?” asks Dr. Jackson.
“We have someone from the Sheffield police driving a Mrs. Tucker here right now,” says Darrell solemnly. “She’s coming to confirm the victim’s identity.”
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
The next morning Diane is up even earlier than usual. A cup of tea in hand, she stares outside her window instead of at her computer screen. Although she had planned to write at least another chapter today, she is finding it quite difficult to concentrate.
A whole chorus of songbirds are singing in Diane’s garden and in the village green across the way. Their morning melodies are forever consistent—they are not cancelled on holidays or for “moments of silence” when somebody dies, even if the dearly departed had been “resting peacefully” against one of their favourite perching places not even 24 hours ago.
After her tea, hardly touched, turns much too cold to enjoy, Diane sees children in uniforms running towards the primary school. For a moment the retired schoolteacher is swept back to the times where she drank up the enthusiasm of her former students. She had been a favourite for many of them; they never dreaded coming to her classes, although Diane is much too modest to admit this.
Diane sees a police car pull up and park next to the green. A constable gets out and walks towards the crime scene. It only takes him a couple of minutes to remove the yellow police tape, get back in his car and drive away.
That’s strange, thinks Diane. The police tape has been taken down already. She’s quite sure no forensic team personnel had analysed the scene. And she has been at her window from the time Inspector Darrell Crothers left until nightfall yesterday, and then again early this morning.
Murder on the Village Green: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 2
