Murder on the Village Green: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery (4 page)

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.

“And so did your husband?”

Mrs. Tucker nods her head, just barely refraining from sobbing.

“And do you know why he was staying at an inn, the Farmer’s Refuge, here in Shrewsbury?” Darrell asks delicately.

“He was here for his ghost research,” she says. “He would go twice a year, to a different county each time. This trip was to explore Shropshire. To visit the places he read about in ghost story books. He is fascinated by ghosts… he
was
fascinated by ghosts.”

Mrs. Tucker stops, swallowing hard.

“And when was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

“Right before he left,” she smiles for the first time. “I like to give him his space for these trips. Just like he gives me my space for my spa days with the girls. We trust each other…
trusted
each other.”

Mrs. Tucker starts tearing up again.

“Do you have some family coming to be with you?” asks Darrell.

“Yes, my brother and his wife will be here soon.”

Darrell thanks Mrs. Tucker for her time.

The DO NOT DISTURB sign and the fact that Paul Tucker’s wife did not expect to hear from him until he returned to Sheffield explained why no alarm bells had been sounded about the state of his room or his being. But how did the person or persons who performed the fatal organ harvest gain access to his hotel room?

Darrell decides he had better go visit Diane. He needs to tell her that the hotel keycard she found is proving very helpful to the murder inquiry. What Darrell cannot quite admit is that he needs Diane’s insight to help him interpret the observations and theories scurrying around his pounding head.

♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠

When Darrell is at the door of Diane’s house, it’s nearly lunchtime.

Diane opens her front door and invites him in. Darrell walks in to see a small dining table set for two. The salmon on toasts, the fresh green drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette and sparkling mineral water make Darrell’s stomach growl. He realizes he hasn’t consumed anything yet today except for several cups of coffee—something he only drinks when he’s knackered.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” says Darrell, about to take his leave. “I can see you are expecting company for lunch.”

“I am,” says Diane. “A very important guest, as a matter of fact.”

Darrell is disappointed. He really wanted to tell Diane that the hotel keycard is proving to be a valuable piece of evidence.

He could also really use the clarity she tends to generate… and perhaps he is, in this single moment, also desperate for the comfort someone of her age and disposition provides.

“I won’t take up any of your time then,” says Darrell, trying to mask his chap-fallen sentiments. “Perhaps I can drop by later this afternoon…”

Diane breaks into exuberant laughter—this particular laugh of hers is
almost
always contagious—causing Darrell to turn red.

“Come through you silly goose! It is you I’m expecting for lunch.”

“Well, that’s just fine then. I was starting to drool over your spread,” Darrell chuckles, attempting to be more light-hearted.

After Diane tells the inspector to stop fussing and to join her at the table, Darrell takes a bite of salmon toast. This, he realizes, is what his churning and fretful stomach has been missing all day. It is a welcome sensation, especially after the night he had. For the first time since learning that poor Paul Tucker’s kidneys and liver were stolen, Darrell is able to relax, and even feel some ounce of hope that the organ ring killers will be apprehended.

“I thank you Diane, this meal is hitting the spot.”

“You’re quite welcome Darrell… but I expect you did not come here simply to discuss my culinary abilities.”

Darrell clears his throat and contemplates what he will say next. He takes another bite of salad, a sip of mineral water and waits until his mouth is completely empty.

“It turns out the green card you found is indeed a hotel keycard. And you were right to guess it belongs to the Farmer’s Refuge Inn.”

Diane eyes Darrell, expectantly sensing he has more to share.

“And we’ve determined that the keycard is a vital clue to this particular investigation,” Darrell says, being very careful not to reveal more than he should.

Diane only takes but a brief moment to enjoy the satisfaction that she had found something significant to help with the case. Her delight, however, quickly changes to inquisitiveness.

“Can you now tell me how
Paul Tucker
died?” asks Diane.

Diane has easily figured out the name of the victim! Darrell does not know if he should be surprised or impressed. Then again he had asked her, just the day before, whether she was familiar with the name.

Darrell folds his napkin as compactly as the piece of linen will allow. He normally cannot discuss an open case with a material witness. Yet from their past dealings, he knows he can trust Diane. And if he is completely honest with himself, Darrell knows Diane’s beneficial assistance will likely go beyond that of her initial statement. It already has.

“I’m willing to provide you with answers to
some
of your questions,” Darrell says, “but only if you promise to keep whatever I tell you under your hat.”

“Of course I will! This is not my first criminal investigation, as you know. Who am I going to tell anyway?” asserts Diane, although her mind drifts to Albert. She finds it hard to keep anything from him—especially anything as fascinating as a possible murder inquiry. But it will have to be mum’s the word, even while speaking with her close friend.

Darrell takes one last bite of salmon toast and wipes his mouth with his tightly folded napkin. Drawing in a big breath, he says, “You asked how Paul Tucker died. It was murder, but perhaps a murder that even you, Mrs. Dimbleby… Diane… have not even guessed. Dr. Jackson, the medical examiner, determined that the cause of death was exsanguination. That means—”

“A fatal form of blood loss,” Diane jumps in.

“Yes, you’re right,” says Darrell. “And, specifically, Mr. Tucker bled out after his kidneys and liver were removed. We are quite certain he is the victim of illegal organ harvesting.”

Diane gasps and covers her mouth for a long time. She is completely shocked. Like Darrell, she has come across or heard about a significant number of gruesome crimes, but none like this. Harvesting one’s organs against one’s will or without one’s knowledge has got to be one of the cruellest crimes in existence.

She had done quite a bit of research on organ trafficking.
What was it that provoked that?
Oh yes, it was that time when she and Albert had watched
Dirty Pretty Things.
Albert had wanted to watch the film for some time because of its impressive wins at the British Independent Film Awards back in 2003. Diane remembers Albert had been worried the film’s title would embarrass her. “Pshaw,
”
she had said, urging him to start playing the movie.

Dirty Pretty Things
had opened Diane’s eyes to the gruesome trade of desperate persons giving up their kidneys in exchange for falsified travel documents. When she started researching the topic, it did not appear that illegal organ harvesting was actually a problem specific to London or any place in the UK. But Diane did glean a global overview of the atrocious trade.

She learned that kidneys are the most common among illegally harvested organs. Kidneys seem to be highest in demand and perhaps they are the cheapest to acquire; not to mention the fact that individuals can still live quite healthily after losing one of their two kidneys—although traffickers might not give a damn about their “organ donors’” quality of life afterwards.

Diane also knows that victims are generally alive when organs are harvested. If the operation is performed by a licensed surgeon, and the victim is under anaesthesia, there is a chance of survival. But if the operation is performed shoddily by an unqualified quack, death is almost a certainty.

“Death is almost a certainty,” Diane ruminates out loud.

“Sorry?” asks Darrell gently.

Diane shakes her head—she had simply been talking to herself.  She continues shaking her head over the severity of Paul Tucker’s murder.

“Diane, the keycard you found next to the oak tree… it was the keycard to Paul Tucker’s room at the Farmer’s Refuge.”

Darrell continues describing the hotel room: the missing bed linen, the pile of towels in the bathroom, the ice buckets, the large stain on the floor, the dented lampshade.

“Do you think then, that Mr. Tucker’s organs were extracted… stolen… in his hotel room?” asks Diane.

“Yes, we are treating his room at the Farmer’s Refuge as the actual scene of the crime,” says Darrell, walking towards Diane’s front window. “And the oak tree is the disposal site.”

Darrell and Diane say their goodbyes, giving each other knowing glances. They are both quite certain they will see each other again during the course of this investigation.

Diane sits at her desk still feeling astonished by what she has just learned. The very act of having a part so internal removed—literally from inside one’s body—would probably make many of us feel somewhat vulnerable, even if it is a procedure deemed medically necessary like the blissful occasion of the birth of a child.

Thus, the idea of some part being ripped from inside a person without their consent, or through sheer force, is so heinous… so violating… almost personal.

But the truth is, those who killed Paul Tucker probably did not know him from Adam. They probably targeted him within a short span of time, identifying some gullible or over-trusting aspect of his demeanour. Or perhaps it was even a blitz attack.

The motive for this despicable crime is probably one that has persisted throughout the ages: greed. Diane remembers, more recently, reading a newspaper article about brokers selling kidneys to wealthy patients for $200,000 American, and a heart for a colossal one million dollars!

If Diane can do anything to stop these money-hungry, despicable individuals from stealing any more organs, she will.

She wonders if there is any more evidence still hidden around the oak tree. She had not spent much time there investigating before Darrell arrived this morning. Plus, the green keycard she had found had blended in with its surroundings and was partially covered by dirt. Maybe there are more clues that require some prolonged and careful searching in order to be found.

Then again, the keycard was only
half
buried
.
Is it possible that one of the accomplices that had participated in the loathsome act had planted the card there purposefully? Maybe he or she had been forced into this awful scheme. Maybe the so-called accomplice deems the nature of the crime to be as vile as Diane and Darrell think it is and wants the police to catch the traffickers before they can strike again.

Without taking any more time to deliberate, Diane decides she must go back to the disposal site to see if she can find more clues left behind, by accident or design. She quickly opens the front door and sees Albert facing her, holding a pan of brownies.   

Diane stops herself from shrieking. Albert is the last person that would instil fear into the retired schoolteacher, but her purpose-driven brain and adrenaline-filled body had not been expecting to see anybody standing in front of her cottage at this very moment.

“I brought brownies,” says Albert, matter-of-factly, walking past Diane to her kitchen.

“Thank you,” Diane says, not sure whether to be annoyed that her mission has been interrupted or touched by Albert’s thoughtfulness.

“I figured you were probably not in the mood to bake brownies. I heard it was you that found the mysterious body yesterday,” he says, giving her a look of concern, rather than one of a meddler.

Diane relaxes and cuts them each a brownie. She does not invite him to sit and stay a while, however.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Diane closes her eyes and bites into the chocolate square.

“Mmmmm,” she utters sincerely. “Albert, you never cease to amaze me. I’ve always known you are a wonderful chef, but now I can add baking to your long list of talents.”

“Thank you Diane. But are you quite alright? I mean with what happened yesterday?”

“Of course I am! You know me, I’ve observed—and written about—much worse,” Diane winks.

Oh, how Diane wishes to elaborate and tell Albert all about the clues she’s found, and what she now knows must have happened in a hotel room in Shrewsbury. But she has made Inspector Darrell Crothers a promise and she shall keep it.

Diane gently ushers Albert back to the front door telling him that she is in the midst of a particularly productive writing session, and she does not wish to break the creative flow. Is it wrong to tell a fib to your best friend, she wonders?

“I shall see you tonight at yours, for mead and mystery!” she adds, promptly shutting the door.

How on Earth will I get through the evening with Albert without revealing any of the inquiry’s pertinent details?

Diane peeks out the front window to watch Albert walk, rather hesitantly, away. After he changes his mind not once, but twice, to walk straight back to Diane’s front door before deciding against it, he finally walks out of view. To be sure, Diane waits for her cuckoo clock’s minute hand to shift three places before heading outside.

Before her right foot steps onto the village green, Diane hears her name being called. To her left she sees Alfie, the pub landlord, and Gemma, the hotel manager, rushing towards her.

“Out for a stroll Mrs. Dimbleby?” asks Alfie.

“Not right to stay indoors the whole day,” says Gemma. “You know that as sure as I do, Mrs. Dimbleby. At school you always said ‘Go out and breathe that fresh air’. Right as rain you was!”

Normally Diane loves having a good old chin wag with her fellow villagers—it’s one of the many aspects of Apple Mews she adores. But today she wants to get on with her investigation, and without being watched. Doing so incognito might prove near impossible in her beloved village, at least at this time of day.

“We noticed the inspector detective go round yours around lunchtime…” says Alfie casually.

“It was about that dead man you found, weren’t it?” asks Gemma, a little less casually.

Diane carefully considers what she should say to the questioning pair, all the while feeling like all the eyes of Apple Mews are watching her. 

“Yes, Inspector Crothers did pay me a visit. He just needed to finish getting my witness statement, that’s all.”

Diane can see the two are not satisfied with this response. Their disappointment is not only due to being left out of hearing some juicy details—but their faces also reveal concern for the safety of their families and friends and of themselves.

“The inspector also told me there is nothing for Apple Mews to worry about,” says Diane, knowing her words will be shared with the rest of the village within an hour or two. She hopes that this will alleviate any fear her neighbours might be feeling.

Nothing for Apple Mews to worry about
... that’s another way of saying that the case and its details are not the concern of anybody—except Inspector Crothers, his team and one shrewd mystery novelist—isn’t it? Diane hoped her slight rephrasing of Darrell’s direction brought the hotel manager, the pub landlord and the rest of the village some comfort.