Perhaps they did not need to perform any forensic sweeps because the man had died of natural causes. Or he had died of suspicious circumstances, but someplace else and the oak tree is merely the dump site.
Diane decides she’ll do a little forensic investigating of her own… just in case something was missed. She grabs her notebook, hangs her camera around her neck and puts on her glasses.
She walks across the street at a brisk pace, looking over her shoulder several times. Before entering what had been the cordoned-off crime scene, she pulls out a pair of gloves and booties and puts them on her hands and feet. She often carries a pair of each on her person, knowing that one never knows when one might stumble upon the scene of a crime.
Diane walks concentrically around the oak tree, slowly moving closer and closer to the where she had found the man the day prior. She stops suddenly, crouches down, and picks a four-leaf clover. She has a knack for spotting them from feet away.
She continues inspecting the scene with a fine-toothed comb. She stops and takes several pictures of the grass the mystery man had been sitting on top of yesterday, before jotting something down in her book. She then takes a photo of the bark at the base of the tree trunk and writes another note.
She crouches down and walks slowly around the tree without breaking her squat-pose. She sees something sticking out of the dirt, so uses her gloved fingers to dig and uncover the item. She manages to pry the item from the grips of the ground and continues crouching and moving around the trunk.
In the corner of her eyes, Diane sees something or someone moving slowly behind her. A flurry of thoughts fills her mind.
What if the mystery man had indeed been murdered?
And his killer is back…
And I’m going to be the next victim…
Diane quietly gulps. She tries to remember some of the moves she had learned at a self-defence class she had taken right after David was killed back in London. But that had been nearly 30 years ago.
Was there a backwards kick or elbow move she had practiced? There is no time to think. Diane instead decides she better hop as far ahead as she can and then break into a run. She bends and springs her knees, frog-like, and leaps one metre forward. Not bad!
But her curiosity prevents her from continuing her escape. She turns around, hoping to get a good look of the potential suspect.
She turns around quickly and is surprised to see Inspector Darrell Crothers crouching, just like she had been, beside the tree.
“What are you doing here?!?” they both yell at the same time.
Diane quickly hides the item she had dug up behind her back.
Chapter 3
Darrell hadn’t slept well last night.
After reading Jeremy and Chloe their stories and tucking them into bed, he told Claire he was just going to do some case research—“just for a half hour”—before tucking himself into bed next to her. Thirty minutes turned to surfing on the Internet until the wee hours of the morning.
An increased demand in people waiting for organ transplant, a decreased supply of donors desperate to earn cash or fooled into having a “necessary operation” and their organs are unknowingly removed or victims kidnapped and coerced to part with a body part.
Darrell read through a series of these traumatic cases, like that of the British student found in a flat in Belgrade. At first Serbian authorities deemed the cause of death to be a heroin overdose, but it was later found out that his heart and pancreas had been extracted.
Darrell also learned that the World Health Organization had estimated that around the world, every hour more than one illegal kidney operation takes place. More than one an hour! But surely this was more a problem in India, Pakistan, China, Brazil… not in England!
Yet Darrell had read about how in 2012, it was revealed that a British crime firm had cunningly lured a woman to the UK to harvest her organs. Although it is not clear whether organs were stolen, it was allegedly the first case of human trafficking for the purpose of illegal organ harvesting ever reported in the UK.
And now here is Paul Tucker, discovered in Darrell’s policing area, apparently robbed of his kidneys and liver. Had he been captured or duped? Or had he even willingly agreed to be a living donor, perhaps agreeing to give away just one of his kidneys in exchange for a hefty sum, but then exploited for more than he had consented to?
Desperate financial times called for desperate measures. Likewise, greed could propagate horrific acts.
When Darrell finally went to bed and cycled into REM sleep, he had some horrifically strange dreams. He could only recall snapshots: a corroded scalpel… a bloody sheet… a victim waking up during “surgery”… an innocent child coaxed to follow a stranger…
So when Darrell woke up this morning, he was zonked. And when Darrell is exhausted, he can be quite giddy, or silly really, no matter the reason for being so tired.
Thus upon discovering Diane crouched beside the oak tree in Apple Mews’ green, Darrell’s first reaction is not of dismay, but of whimsy. He decides to crouch behind her to see how long it takes this sweet, older, but still spry woman to notice his presence.
When Diane lunges forward and turns to face him, Darrell cracks up laughing with, surprisingly frolicsome enthusiasm. His laughter is so amusing that Diane cannot remain irritated from being so startled. She stands up laughing too, shaking her head in amusement.
Again, they ask at the same time, “What are you doing here!?!”
“It’s obvious why I’m here, isn’t it?” says Darrell, still chuckling. “I’m investigating a…”
Darrell realizes he has almost said too much.
“Investigating a murder, perhaps?” asks Diane, grinning inquisitively.
Darrell turns around and takes several steps away before asking, “So have you found anything interesting?”
Diane walks to the side of the tree where the mystery man had been sitting. She points to the base of the oak and looks at Darrell. He comes closer to inspect and sees what Diane is pointing to on the tree bark.
“Traces of blood,” he says, taking out his phone to snap a picture.
“No need, Darrell,” Diane says, pointing to the camera around her neck. “I’d be happy to print all of the pictures I took for you.”
“You don’t faff about, do you Diane,” Darrell says, snapping a few photos just the same.
Diane states that the traces on the bark seem to be the only blood in the vicinity.
“If he had died from a wound of any sort, he would have bled on the ground until his heart stopped,” she continues. “But if that were the case we would have found a big, blood pool stain here. I know my eyes are not what they used to be, but it’s clear there is no such stain present… and it has not rained since three days ago, which is long before the body was deposited here.”
“Deposited, you say,” says Darrell, playfully mimicking curiosity.
“Yes, deposited!” Diane confidently says. “Because he must have died somewhere else, the place where he bled out. He was simply brought here post-mortem.”
Diane does not stop there with her deductions. Taking in a deep breath, she exhales into an interpretation of the patch of grass, clearly matted, where the man had been sitting yesterday. “His body must have been placed here hours before I noticed him on my way to the grocer. It was probably brought here quite early in the morning before anybody was out and about.”
“Those are some interesting theories,” says Darrell, not completely letting on that every morsel from her mouth is a credible conclusion he agrees with.
“Oh, and I found something,” says Diane, revealing what she is hiding behind her back—the object she had found at the base of the tree. It is a green piece of plastic the same size and shape as a business card.
“It looks like a hotel keycard,” says Darrell, his tone more serious now. This piece of evidence is a complete surprise to him. How could he have missed it yesterday?
Diane nods her head in agre
ement. She traces her finger along the letters inscribed on the card—a cursive FR. “A hotel with FR as its initials perhaps,” she contemplates out loud.
“The Footmen Rooming House… no… the Friendly Roadhouse… no, of course not,” ponders Darrell.
“I wonder if it’s the Farmer’s Refuge Inn,” says Diane, unsure of her guess.
Darrell quickly looks Diane straight in the eyes.
“Well, I must take my leave now Inspector,” Diane then announces. “You don’t want me mucking about your investigation. Besides, I have things I need to tend to other than searching for clues all day.”
Diane gives Darrell a wink and walks towards her cottage without saying another word.
“The Farmer’s Refuge Inn,” Darrell whispers to himself. “I think she’s right!”
Inside her cottage, Diane inches her way slowly towards the front window so as to not be seen. Hiding behind the batik curtain, Diane peeks to see Darrell continuing to survey the oak tree and the ground and grass surrounding it. He appears to scan much slower this time. Perhaps he’s worried he’ll miss another vital clue, although Diane had noticed he looks particularly exhausted today.
Darrell looks up towards Diane’s cottage. Diane quickly drops to the ground for fear of being caught snooping. She manages not to be detected by the detective, but in doing so knocks over a stack of books along with a spider plant and the end table it was sitting upon.
Removing the dangling spider plantlets out of her grey hair, she slowly rises so her blue eyes are just barely able to spy through the bottom of the window. Diane sees Darrell walking towards his Range Rover.
Diane stands up completely, now feeling the effects of her ‘graceful’ crash to the floor. She repositions the books, stands up the table and places the spider plant back on top, lovingly patting its soil to ensure it is still firmly rooted, just like the old oak tree outside her window.
Diane lays out her yoga mat to stretch out her aching knees and shins. She cannot afford to sustain any serious injuries, not when Darrell would be needing her help on this case. He must be on his way to the Farmer’s Refuge Inn, she thinks. She better get her case notes organized and then get some of her own writing done before Darrell comes back, Diane thinks with foresight.
Feeling much more limber, she sits at her desk and types the notes she recorded from the scene around the oak tree. She prints the document and inserts it into a new file folder. She then removes the memory card from her camera and inserts it into the computer drive. While the pictures are printing, Diane sticks a white label on the file folder—her “case file”. After a little mulling over, she decides to call the folder “Murder on the Green.”
Although Inspector Darrell Crothers did not yet reveal that the mystery man had been murdered, Diane is quite certain he was. Or at least his death was suspicious. After all, Diane is quite certain he was already dead when moved to the village green. That seems suspicious in itself—being moved to a public park after one’s died—she thinks.
Diane realizes she must try to forget about this particular case at hand temporarily, and, for at least a couple of hours, revisit the vandalism at Shrewsbury Abby—the case inspiring the detective novel she is working on.
She looks up at a quotation card that she’s pasted on the wall in front of her—“Procrastination is the thief of time, collar him ~ Charles Dickens”—and starts typing.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Darrell parks his Range Rover across from the Farmer’s Refuge Inn. He crosses the medievalesque road to the lodging house whose timber Tudor-style and black and white aesthetic matches a number of the buildings in the area.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” says Darrell to the young man standing behind the Farmer’s Refuge front desk.
“He told me he shan’t be disturbed under any circumstances,” replies the clerk, slightly nervous. “He said I should only fetch him if a Miss Shepherd arrives… I think he must fancy her,” the clerk adds, whispering this time.
“Why don’t you let me go fetch the manager,” says Darrell, flashing his badge along with a confident grin. “You just point the way and let me take care of the rest.”
The clerk lets out a nervous chuckle and points to the closed door behind him. “I’m going to go take my 15-minute break,” he says, walking away expeditiously.
Darrell holds his breath to refrain from bursting out in laughter and knocks on the manager’s door.
“Bloody hell Dylan, didn’t I tell you to leave me be?” shouts the manager from behind the door.
Darrell knocks again.
“SHOVE OFF!” yells the manager, swinging open the door. Within less than a second, the manager’s face transforms from anger to fear. Only reaching Darrell’s shoulders, the manager immediately eyes the detective inspector badge.
“I cannot shove off just yet,” says Darrell, attempting to maintain a straight face, still feeling the giddy effects of his exhaustion. “I’m Inspector Detective Darrell Crothers. I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Oh, sorry about that mate,” says the manager. “The name’s Silas Crocker. Sorry about the cock up there. That Dylan is a bit daft if you ask me. He is constantly asking questions about this and that. I thought it was him knocking, wanting to bother me again.”
“And you are the manager of the Farmer’s Refuge?”
“That I am. What brings you here?”
Darrell pulls out the green keycard that Diane found earlier this morning. “Is this one of your property’s room keycards?”
Silas Crocker nods his head.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me which room this might belong to?”
“Inspector, I’d like to help you out, really I would, but we’re a respectful business here, that we are. We make sure things are confidential-like for our guests.”
“I think if you match this keycard to the name in your register, you’ll find the name Paul Tucker. And if that’s the case, Paul Tucker is now the subject of an inquiry.”
Of course, Darrell cannot be certain the keycard belongs to Paul Tucker. For all he knows, it could have been dropped on the green ages ago. But perhaps Diane’s sleuthing would bring him luck once again.
Silas begrudgingly goes out to the front desk and swipes the keycard through a machine connected to the inn’s main computer. In a few moments, Darrell can see for himself a record of Paul Tucker’s booking in the system: he checked in on May 30th and is scheduled to check out on June 6th, three days from now.
“Do you remember anything about this guest?” asks Darrell.
Silas thinks for a moment, appearing as though he’s concentrating quite intensively. “If I can remember nicely, I think he was travelling alone. Yes, that’s right, because I remember him talking to a real gorgeous bird. She looked real fit you know, and she had this beautiful long, black hair.”
“And?” says Darrell, interrupting the manager’s state of reverie.
“I remember asking him, Mr. Tucker, if that fine-looking woman was his wife. He says no, he was travelling alone. What a shame.”
“Is there anything else you can remember?”
Silas thinks once more and chuckles. “He asked me directions to Pontesbury. He wanted to see an old house there that he heard was haunted. He fancied himself to be a ghost hunter I expect.”
Darrell jots some things down in his notebook. “Well, I’m going to have to examine his room.”
Before Silas can object, Darrell smoothly snags the keycard from the manager’s hand. There is no need for him to inquire about the room number. He can see for himself on the computer screen that Paul Tucker had been staying in room 13.
Expectantly, a DO NOT DISTURB sign is hanging outside on the doorknob of Paul Tucker’s room. Darrell puts on a pair of gloves, swipes the card through the keycard lock and slowly enters the room.
Immediately Darrell smells a foul odour, a combination of must and soiled clothing. He switches on the light. The room is a real dog’s
dinner, but at first glance, it appears more like a bachelor pad than a murder scene.
On the table, Darrell notices several books on sightseeing in Shropshire and also on local ghost tales. Interestingly the bed is stripped, and the linen does not appear to be any place in the room.
Then Darrell notices that the lampshade on the bedside table has an odd shape. He moves closer to see it is not the lamp shade’s natural shape; instead, it looks like it’s been dented or jabbed. Possible sign of a struggle?
On the other side of the bed, Darrell sees a dark stain on the floor that has a diameter of approximately 30 centimetres. He’s seen this shade of stain before. He’s almost certain it’s blood.
Inside the bathroom, he notes several dried blood droplets in the sink. In the bathtub, there are four ice buckets along with a mound of soiled towels.
This has got to be the actual scene of the crime—the place where those monsters stole poor Mr. Tucker’s organs. Darrell calls into the station to request that the forensic scene investigation team come to the Farmer’s Refuge immediately.
Darrell has to speak to Paul Tucker’s wife as soon as possible. He heads to the police station, once the forensics investigators have arrived, to see if she is still there.
When he arrives, he finds Mrs. Tucker with the police chaplain. She is sipping slowly from a Styrofoam cup and staring blankly at the floor while the chaplain is talking softly beside her.
Darrell makes eye contact with the chaplain who nods. The chaplain places his hand on Mrs. Tucker’s shoulder and makes his retreat. Darrell sits down next to the shocked wife.
“Mrs. Tucker,” says Darrell gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Tucker does not even blink.
“Mrs. Tucker, I’m so sorry to disturb you right now, but I need your help. I need to ask you a few questions about your husband. Is that ok?”
This time, Mrs. Tucker slightly nods her head.
“You live in Sheffield?”
“Yes,” she says softly.
Murder on the Village Green: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 3
