The Diane Dimbleby Murder Collection Volume 2

by Penelope Sotheby

  Inspector Crothers gave a half-hearted reply that said nothing before they both ended the call.

  Sitting in her car for a few more moments, Diane pondered the new information, adjusting the map of events in her mind and plotting the positions of different players. It had continued to be a very enlightening day and Diane thought that she might be homing in on the truth of it all.

  As a heavy cloud draped a grey cloth over the weak sun, Diane turned to her phone again. She dialled Albert and, after a short exchange, drove to the small Apple Mews market and bought some Bourbon biscuits.

  Chapter 9

  “Sarah Dunsten?” Monique chewed up her lip, her brow furrowed with concentration.

  Diane laid a hand on Monique’s arm for quiet reassurance before she went on.

  “Now, don’t make anything out of this. It’s purely an inquiry from Inspector Crothers. Do you know if Jonathan knew her?”

  “Knew her?” said Monique, turning her frown upon Diane. “If I didn’t know her then…”

  The grooves in Monique’s brow grew deeper for a moment, and she tapped a finger upon her knee as if deleting notes from a page.

  “Saraaah.” The last syllable hung in the air as a look of enlightenment entered Monique’s eyes. “Oh yes, we do know her. Well, I say ‘we.' Jonathan knew her more than me.”

  “Did he now?” Diane shot a knowing glance over at Albert, who was doing a very poor job of pretending to read a magazine.

  “He was always so helpful to everyone. He helped her with her taxes a month or two ago, what with him being a financial whiz and taxes being so confusing, wouldn’t you agree? He did them for a few of the neighbours.”

  “That was very kind of him. I have Albert do mine, though I think he has as many problems as I do.”

  Albert peered over the top of the magazine with a feigned look of outrage.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve never been to jail for anything I’ve filed yet.” From behind the pages, he brandished crossed fingers at the ladies. “But, with luck, there’s always next year.”

  “They wouldn’t take you,” replied Diane. “Or if they did, they’d send you back quick enough.”

  Monique giggled at the banter and Albert, ever the gentleman, stuck out his tongue before loudly rustling the magazine and covering his face. Diane smiled softly before returning a more serious gaze to Monique.

  “So he was friends with Sarah?”

  “I don’t know about friends. I mean, he would go over to her house around once a week to get the taxes done. And they would go to the resident meetings together. I never enjoyed them so Jonathan, being a dear, said I didn’t have to go, and Sarah went with him instead.”

  “There was a fairly regular interaction then?”

  “I suppose so. He never really talked about work, even things he was doing with friends.”

  “Excuse me for a second,” said Diane as she rose and went to the kitchen, asking on her way, “Coffee anyone?”

  Two voices replied with affirmation as Diane rattled a couple of cups before tapping out a series of text messages to Inspector Crothers.

  Chapter 10

  “That’s definitely her number,” said Mills as he emphasized lines of text on two sheets of paper with his thumbs. “Perfect timing too.”

  Crothers interrupted by answering his phone and uttering “I see” several times.

  “She was friends with Jonathan, according to Monique.” Crothers hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket.

  “Friends, is it.” Mills had a grin that quirked one cheek. “I bet they were just friends. And now she’s conveniently on holiday.”

  Crothers nodded slowly. He did not like how convenient it seemed to be.

  “I think we need to have a chat with Buchan again.”

  Mills agreed and made for the Constable standing before the Carstairs’ house. The exchange was brief, and Mills waved Crothers to follow as he stalked up the street towards an immaculate pink house. Their heavy feet left deep gouges in the plush grass of the lawn as they made straight for the front door, a decoration-heavy wreath sagging across the top third. Ignoring the doorbell, Mills slammed his fist against the door, bouncing the wreath and shaking loose several glass berries that tinkled to the doorstep. Before the door had rattled in its frame for the third time, Buchan appeared, pulling the door inward as if to protect it from further damage.

  “Detectives. How may I h-help you?” A sickly grin, obsequious in its extremity, wrinkled the skin around Buchan’s eyes as he bowed slightly.

  “Dunsten, Sarah. What do you know about her?” Mills expressed sharply. “Her and the Carstairs family.”

  “Well, you know I don’t keep t-tabs on everyone all of the t-time.”

  “We don’t need their bathroom habits,” said Mills.

  “Tell us about when you’ve seen Jonathan Carstairs and Ms. Dunsten together.” Crothers’ tone was mild, more placating, compared to Mills. “When did you see them?”

  “Not often, I know that,” said Buchan meekly. “I mean, they came to several residents’ meetings together. I saw them enter and was surprised Mr. Carstairs wasn’t with his wife.”

  “Why were you surprised?”

  “Well, the Carstairs were never f-far apart. Mrs. Carstairs would usually be with him at the meetings. She was definitely there at the latest one, but they didn’t arrive with Ms. Dunsten.” Buchan pondered for a second before continuing. “In fact, Jonathan wasn’t with Sarah for the last couple of meetings. I didn’t even see them interact, s-sat across the room from each other, as I recall.”

  “But they were friends?”

  “I couldn’t say. They s-seemed to be at the meetings. But, understand Detectives, I rarely saw them outside of meetings.”

  “Did Sarah Dunsten seem upset at the last meeting, where you and Jonathan Carstairs had your little spat?”

  Buchan shrank back, losing a foot in height as Mills put heavy emphasis on the sentence.

  “I-I swear, Inspector, I don’t remember. I was too worked up about Jonathan’s proposal. I st-stormed out directly after I…”

  “After you threatened him,” stated Mills, finishing the thought.

  Buchan nodded meekly.

  “Alright,” said Mills, losing the tone of accusation from his voice. “We’re going to need to see Sarah Dunsten’s house and talk to her neighbours. Lead on, Mr. Buchan.” A slab of a hand waved to the street, Buchan flinching slightly as it passed his direction.

  Buchan pulled the front door closed behind him and walked up the street, turning frequently to look at the Inspectors towering behind him, like an obedient dog checking his master was still in tow.

  “You won’t have much luck with neighbours, I think, Inspectors,” Buchan spoke over his shoulder so that his quiet comment could be heard. “We’ve had s-several people move out due to financial constraints. Sarah’s had no neighbours for a few months.”

  “Another coincidence?” said Crothers.

  “Get enough coincidences in a room, and you can get a conviction,” replied Mills.

  The group walked for several minutes passing houses in various states of occupancy, the length of the grass in the front garden being a good indicator of the period of time since mowing was a priority. Apart from the variation in colour schemes and the odd hanging basket or ornament on a door, the group may as well have been walking on a treadmill with a looping movie reel of houses projected around them to give the illusion of movement. Eventually, before a house that could have been one they passed two, five, or ten minutes earlier, Buchan stopped and indicated with a hand.

  “Stay here,” said Mills, the menace back in his voice, eyebrows knotted and casting a shadow over his eyes. “You may still be of interest.”

  Crothers was already striding towards the side of the house as Mills made for the front door. Rapping briskly on the frame, Mills called out for Sarah to open the door. Other than echoes of his own activity reflecting off the surrounding houses, Mills
received no response. He knocked again, and again, louder and with more force in his voice each time and every effort was greeted with the same silence.

  “Nothing back here,” yelled Crothers. “Locked up tight.”

  Wandering around the perimeter of the house, each officer peered into windows and through the letterbox. Nothing stirred in the house, and no vehicle was found.

  “She looks to have gone,” said Mills, resting his back against the sidewall of the house.

  “And no neighbours to see if she had a passenger.” Crothers looked around at the adjacent property as he dropped against the wall next to Mills.

  “Just to ice it off, I bet she didn’t tell anyone where she was going either.”

  Crothers laid his head back against the rough brick. There was evidence by the crime-scene-van-load, but it all seemed to be inconclusive. No fingerprints, no DNA, no locations of the missing people. Circumstantially, Sarah Dunsten was lining up as the primary suspect. Probably an affair, running away together like two kids escaping overbearing parents, leaving their troubles behind to live a dream. Naiveté and the draw of a fantasy never left as you aged. The fantasies faded under the glare of reality and naiveté led to pain. You’re getting even more cynical, thought Crothers, and it brought a wry smile to his face. His wife was telling him that all the time and his denials were numerous and energetic.

  “If Eddie Tomkins is involved, I bet there’s a mound of money in play too,” said Mills, pushing up from the wall. “Money and a mistress can make a man do crazy things.”

  “But what about the house ransacking? It seems so unnecessary.”

  “Unless she had a boyfriend too. Or Monique was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. It’s amazing how selfish people can be. Their own affairs are okay, but if their partner does it… I’ve seen my share of crimes stemming from that.”

  Crothers nodded solemnly. What’s good for the gander is not always good for the goose, if the gander finds out.

  He pushed himself off the wall to follow Mills who had started to walk back to Buchan, who was glancing nervously around the side of the house. His eyes traced a line down the wall of the adjacent house and onto a side door. Crothers stopped mid-push, leaving himself angled slightly backwards. He tilted his head and stared at the frame of the door. It seemed to be darker on one side than the other as if a shadow was projecting from the surrounding brickwork. The problem was that the sun had dipped behind trees to the west and the door was on the east side of the building.

  Completing his ascent, Crothers gave a sharp whistle, attracting Mills’ attention. He stepped calmly and quietly across the small grass partition between the two properties and over a low wall. Mills came in from the front side of the house, through a shallow wrought-iron gate. Crothers took one side of the door and Mills stood ready at the other. With a nod, Mills pushed on the door with a knuckle, and it swung smoothly inwards. The movement was not greeted by an exclamation or the crack of the door against a skull from someone spying on their search. It flew quietly backwards until arrested by a rubber doorstop.

  Slipping around the door frame, Crothers rolled into the house and stopped immediately, Mills pushing gently against his back at the unexpected end to the movement.

  “What…” The words froze in Mills' mouth as Crothers stepped deftly aside, opening the whole room to his view.

  The body of a man laid face-down on the stone tile. The back of his white shirt was black and shredded, and the handle of a knife protruded like a deformed vertebra from between his shoulders. Suit trousers were bunched around his ankles, the belt splayed to either side of his bare legs. Blood had pooled around the body and coagulated to a dark, dull puddle. A leather wallet sat half-open between his legs and using a now gloved hand, Crothers pushed it open to reveal the driver’s license of Jonathan Carstairs.

  Chapter 11

  “Looks like death was at least a day ago. The cause seems pretty obvious, I’d say.” Mayhew looked down at the late Jonathan Carstairs, looking slowly from head to toe. “We’ll have to wait for the medical folks to be sure, though.”

  “So she killed him and ran off with the money. Lured him in with some kinky sex in an abandoned house and caught him with his pants down.” Mills was rubbing his jaw, the rasp of stubble punctuating his words. “I’ve got everyone I can muster looking for Sarah Dunsten.”

  “If she’s got any intelligence, she’ll be in Eastern Europe before we even started looking for the missing person.” The small notebook shook in Crothers' hand as he rapidly scribbled a pen over pages. “In a villa on the Bosphorus, maybe, enjoying her easily earned money.”

  Mills nodded sagely, his thoughts running to all the places he would run if he had the money and didn’t want to be dragged away in chains.

  “What money?” said Mayhew without looking up. “I don’t think there was any money. Other than what was in his wallet.”

  Crothers and Mills turned to the forensics officer with inquiring gazes.

  “What do you mean there’s no money?” asked a bemused Mills. “He’d probably taken a bribe from a very disreputable developer.”

  “He took the money, a bribe,” responded Mayhew. “The problem is he was going to or had already given it back.”

  “Why would he give it back?”

  Mayhew looked up at Inspector Mills with a deep frown and made to speak before the frown was replaced with a look of enlightenment.

  “That’s right, I forgot. I haven’t given you this yet.”

  From a small satchel that hung from Mayhew’s side, he extracted a single crisp sheet of paper and handed it to Mills, Crothers crowding in beside him to read over his shoulder.

  There were several moments after both men had finished reading that they stood in silence, pondering the significance of the letter.

  “Got that from the printer memory, just like you asked,” said Mayhew. “Good method, that. I’ve told one of the other officers to write up a little How-To memo for the rest of the team.”

  Mills whistled through his teeth.

  “One million pounds,” said Mills wistfully. “How do you return a mill?”

  “Guilty conscience,” said Crothers distractedly. “He was not a born criminal.”

  “But you don’t just return money to people like Ed Tomkins. They’d take that as a double-cross, going back on your word.” Mills was still staring at the sheet of paper as he spoke. “You’d be made an example of.”

  “Do we know if he sent this letter?” asked Crothers.

  “No. It was printed, but that’s as far as we can determine.” Mayhew flourished another sheet of paper. “Date code on the event said it was a couple of days ago, though, so I’d say there’s a fair chance.”

  “So she offed him before he could return the money,” said Mills. “Lured him here, stabbed him and made off with it before he could give it back.”

  “This certainly doesn’t rule Sarah out,” replied Crothers, who was furiously flicking through his notebook. “Unless Tomkins got to him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like Ed for this. He’s got a bad reputation, breaking fingers, kneecaps, that sort of thing. I don’t think the Chief would let him operate if he was going homicidal, though. That would not look good at the Chief of Police’s ball, would it.”

  Shaking his head, Crothers said:

  “You’re right there. No-one likes murderers running loose in their town. So we’ve got to get our hands on Sarah Dunsten. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Stop them all.”

  “I don’t know what resources you have over at Shrewsbury but we’re a little under-staffed.” Mills walked out the door and, turning to the street, said, “We’ll get her though.”

  Crothers watched as Mayhew padded around the kitchen in his white plastic bootees, sticking labels to points of interest such as droplets of blood or discolorations on a marble surface. Now came the part he never liked: informing the family. He felt a little consolation that Diane would be with him during the pro
cess, her motherly aura comforting by its mere presence.

  Nodding briefly to Mayhew who was too engrossed in a cabinet of glassware, Crothers left the house and put a call in to Diane.

  Chapter 12

  “I thought I’d go to visit my sister in Whitby,” said Monique as she flicked distractedly through a book. “She’s been asking me to visit for ages and now she’s become even more insistent.”

  “You certainly can’t go home, not yet,” said Albert, who was laying dishes out on a pine dining table. “A bit of sea air while you wait for him to call won’t hurt one bit.”

  “You and Diane have been so lovely to take care of me. I’m sorry to have dragged you both into this. I just didn’t see any other option.”

  Albert waved a hand at Monique, fending off her words.

  “We’ve been happy to,” Albert said with a smile. “You’re a lovely guest, and we’re glad to have been able to help even a little.”

  “I thought I’d leave this evening, after dinner, if you don’t mind.”

  “It gets dark around these country roads. You really should spend the night and get an early start.”

  Diane emerged from the kitchen, the light on her phone screen dying.

  “You might want to stay a little longer,” she said. “That was Inspector Crothers. There’s been some news. He’s on his way over right now.”

  Monique leapt to her feet, the book falling heavily to the floor, forgotten.

  “Have they found him?”

  “He didn’t say. Only that there was some important news and that he will be here shortly.” Turning to Albert, Diane said, “Set another place, dear. He may need something to eat. I would imagine he’s not eaten much at all today.”

  Albert saluted precisely and made for the kitchen.

  “I’ll bring your bag down too,” he said to Monique as he left.

  Diane moved across the room and took Monique by the hand, patting it gently across the knuckles.