DCI Dinescu is No Stereotype
Crime fiction has long been full of detectives who are as broken as the criminals they pursue. They drink too much, sleep too little, treat rules with contempt, alienate everyone around them, and somehow are able to remain at the centre of major investigations. Their relationships are in ruins, their careers hang by a thread, and they lurch from one case to the next by instinct or by force of personality. Readers have seen the type often enough to recognise it at once, especially in TV drama. DCI Dinescu does not fit this type at all.
It can make for great dramatic fiction, of course, but it is also a version of policing that has become so familiar it is now almost expected. The broken detective has become a stock figure of the genre.
When I came to create my fictional detective, I never wanted to follow that trope. Part of that is simply personal taste, but part of it also comes from my own background in policing. In the real world, the permanently drunken officer, or the reckless, insubordinate maverick who ignores procedure whenever it suits them, would not be endlessly indulged because they happen to be clever. They would be promptly challenged and removed from the job. This is not the 1970s (think Gene Hunt in Life on Mars by Ashley Pharoah). Serious investigations depend on following strict methodology, patience, judgement, teamwork, sound decision-making. They do not rest on theatrical rule-breaking and a hero’s instinctive hunch.
That was one of the reasons I created DCI Beniamin Dinescu as I did. I wanted a senior investigating officer who felt believable to me. Not bland, and certainly not dull, but grounded. A man who could carry authority, a detective who could be serious without being joyless, disciplined without being rigid, and humane without turning sentimental. He is someone shaped by what he has lived through, but not broken by it.
Some detectives make a great deal of noise about themselves. DCI Dinescu does not. He is not the loudest person in the room, neither has he the need to create a performance. He is serious, thoughtful, and difficult to fool. He notices more than he says, and when he does speak, it is usually because he has something worth saying.
That reserve means he is often misunderstood at first. When DS Emily Summers first met him, she thought him aloof. People see the stern expression, the imposing height, the scar, the silence, and they make quick judgements. They assume, like Summers did, that he is cold, distant, severe, or hard to know. The truth is more complicated than that. Dinescu has a strong moral centre, a dry sense of humour, and a quiet dislike of bullies, show-offs, and anyone who mistakes intimidation for strength. He is not interested in domination for its own sake. He has no patience for those who think noise is the same as substance.
As a detective, he is patient, observant, and steady under pressure. He does not rush to fill silence, because silence is often useful. He does not mistake activity for progress. He watches and listens, weighing what people say, what they avoid saying, and how they behave when they think no one is noticing. He believes that detail matters, that truth is usually found in the quieter corners, and that leadership is not about who shouts the loudest.
That, for me, is much closer to the kind of detective I wanted to read, and the kind I wanted to write. I did not want a man whose life was a permanent bonfire, but someone who could credibly lead a murder inquiry. That does not mean he is untouched by the past, or free of pain. Dinescu carries history, and some of it is visible. Some of it is not. There are things he has lived through that have literally marked him, things he does not discuss easily, and things he has learned to endure without turning himself inside out for the benefit of other people.
Too many fictional detectives seem to exist only in relation to the case, as though they disappear into a drawer when they leave the office. I never wanted that for Dinescu. Away from work, he is a husband, a father, and a man whose home life is not an afterthought. He is capable of warmth, wit, protectiveness, and deep loyalty. The contrast between the detective the world sees and the man his family knows is one of the things that defines him. Those who are observant will notice that he is only called Dinescu when he puts on his police lanyard. When that comes off, I refer to him as Beniamin.
That contrast also makes him more human. He can lead a difficult investigation and still go home to the ordinary realities of family life. He can carry responsibility without becoming emotionally hollow. He is fully capable of love, humour, tenderness, and restraint. The Beniamin you see at home is the true Beniamin Dinescu.
Dinescu fits very well with the Chichester District of West Sussex, even after being brought up in London. He loves the rolling hills of the Sussex Downs, the quieter tensions of towns and villages, the beauty and unease that can sit side by side. In that sense, the setting and the character belong together.
So when readers meet DCI Beniamin Dinescu, I do not expect them to find the usual crime-fiction stereotype. I hope they find someone more grounded than that. A man of character, intelligence, restraint, loyalty, and with a strong moral compass. Someone who may be misread at first glance, but who reveals more of himself over time. Someone who can stand at the centre of a murder investigation and still feel like a real human being.
Being human was always the point. That is DCI Beniamin Dinescu. If readers think they know him at first glance, they may wish to look again.
The Chichester Crime Mysteries can be purchased here.
Matthew J. Evans is a crime writer from Fishbourne near Chichester, West Sussex, UK.