Addicted to Death

by Matthew Redford

“And when you’ve done that you can return my tablet computer to my office. I lent that to you at the beginning of the week and you’ve still not managed to give it back.”

  “Yeah, all right, stop nagging. When did you turn into such an old woman? Good job I never asked you to the poker evening last night. You’d have spent most of the night complaining about the decor.”

  Benedict smiled at Travis. “How did you get on?”

  “Let’s just say I’m lucky to have this shirt on my back.”

  “That good then.”

  “Yeah, that good.”

  The evening had closed in while Benedict and Darcy were in the theatre watching Titanic – the ‘rock’ musical, and as they left the building, the damp air pricked at Darcy’s shell as she pulled her feather boa tighter around her neck. Benedict also felt the dampness and pulled a woolly hat from his pocket, slipping it on his head as Darcy watched and pulled a face.

  “Look, I know you don’t like this hat Darcy, but I feel the cold just like you do.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like the hat per se, it’s just that it makes you look like you should be sitting on a breakfast table waiting for some soldiers.”

  They smiled at each other and joined hands as they walked back home.

  “I enjoyed this evening. I grant you it wasn’t the best show we’ve ever seen but you can’t deny it was catchy in places.”

  Benedict looked incredulously at his wife. “To be fair, I wouldn’t have used the word catchy. Inappropriate maybe, but not catchy”.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You didn’t think that the use of Status Quo’s song Down, down, deeper and down was inappropriate as the Titanic hit the iceberg?”

  Darcy gave a snort and squeezed Benedict’s hand tight. “Well, maybe that wasn’t the highlight of the evening…”

  The walk home was carefree, two happy eggs so comfortable with each other. They’d met at college and fallen head over heels in love almost instantly. They took the same classes, had the same interests and, despite a brief separation when Benedict had a drunken dalliance with a gammon steak, everyone knew they were made for each other. Their wedding was a small affair, just close family and friends. Darcy looked stunning in a white cardboard dress adorned with a lacy frill and a British lion quality hallmark, and Benedict was so handsome in top hat and tails, standing beside his best man Travis. Three years had flashed past since that day, and although Darcy had not yet been fertilised, it was surely just a matter of time.

  They neared Beaconborne Avenue, walking past the small community play area, which, at that time of night, was occupied by teenagers sneaking a cigarette and doing nothing more than posturing. As they walked, Darcy glanced across to the swings and caught a glimpse of what looked like a tall figure wearing a fedora pulled down low over his face. She tugged at Benedict’s arm, catching his attention and nodded in the direction of the swing.

  “By the swings, did you see that man?”

  “What?”

  “By the swings. Did you see that chap over there with the funny hat?”

  “What man? There’s no one near the swings.”

  Darcy looked again, and although there was nobody in sight other than the smoking teenagers, she felt sure there had been someone watching them, especially as the swing was moving methodically back and forth as though someone had just been on it. They turned into Beaconborne Avenue, a long sweeping cul-de-sac which slept quietly with just some low level street lighting showing the eggs the way home. As they approached their home, Darcy started to rummage through her bag, trying to retrieve her keys as she wondered, not for the first time, how they always managed to evade her grasp when she needed them, and yet they were always within reach when she needed her purse or tissues. Just as her fingers found the keys, a soft yet firm voice surprised them both from behind.

  “Mr and Mrs Blacktail?”

  They turned around, surprised to find the soft voice came from a tall, powerful looking, albeit slightly jaundiced, figure. He was actually quite tall, but a spinal curvature made him stoop so he appeared smaller than he really was, though nonetheless imposing. He wore a long trench coat to try to hide the curvature but it remained obvious.

  Benedict spoke first. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’ve a message for you sir. I came to let you know that you shouldn’t have sent that email – it was a mistake.”

  “Bennie, what email?” asked Darcy, the nerves in her voice evident.

  A look of concern crossed Benedict’s face. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about. Who are you?”

  “I think you know very well what I am talking about Mr Blacktail.” He turned to face Darcy.

  “Mrs Blacktail. I am sorry to tell you that your husband has overstepped the mark and I’m very sorry that you have been caught up in this tonight.”

  There was sincerity about the statement which frightened Darcy more than anything, an impending sense of dread rising sharply in her chest.

  “Bennie, who is this man?”

  “I’ve genuinely no idea my love,” replied Benedict, taking Darcy by the arm and backing her away from the imposing figure who, despite his stoop, dwarfed them.

  “Then please allow me to introduce myself. I am your worst nightmare.”

  The self-proclaimed nightmare unbuttoned his trench coat and pulled out a large metal spoon, which glistened against the moonlight. He looked at Benedict, tipped him his fedora and swung the spoon, cracking it firmly against the side of Benedict’s head. As Benedict fell backwards, dazed and disorientated he heard Darcy scream his name, and saw a swirling version of his wife throwing herself at their attacker, her hands ripping at his coat. And then, as his head continued to spin and he felt that the pain couldn’t get any worse, he heard the crack of the spoon fracturing his wife’s shell.

  The world seemed to move in slow motion for Benedict as the contents of his wife’s bag spilled to the floor, each item – her purse, her keys, her lipstick – tumbling out, one by one, onto the ground near where he lay.

  As she landed beside her husband, Darcy and Benedict made eye contact with each other for the final time as pain, confusion and love were all expressed through the power of one look. They reached for each other knowing darkness would soon consume them, as their nightmare stood over their fallen bodies, spoon raised aloft once more.

  Day 2

  2

  Detective Inspector Willie Wortel

  Surveying the scene in the front of him, DI Willie Wortel recoiled at the mess and the tragedy of the night before. It was always like this. No matter how hard he tried to prepare himself, the extent of the carnage never ceased to shock and amaze him. Standing in his favourite pale blue suit, white shirt and the matching blue tie which nicely offset his orange skin, he shook his head and raised his eyes to the heavens.

  “Dad, will you get out of the way, I’m late for college and I’ve not had breakfast yet.” The sharpness of his daughter’s voice snapped Wortel back to reality and he stepped aside allowing his daughter Janie into the family kitchen.

  “What have you been doing in here, Dad?” she asked accusingly. “It’s a pigsty.”

  “I’ll have you know that this mess must be down to your mum and your little brother thank you very much, and I don’t appreciate the tone.”

  Janie barely raised an eyebrow at the rebuke as she navigated her way around the mess, finding a clean space at the kitchen table to set down her bowl.

  “And, young lady, just out of curiosity, where were you last night?”

  “Leave her alone darling, she was studying with friends last night, weren’t you dear.”

  Stella Carson, Wortel’s wife of twenty-two years, breezed into the kitchen, her dressing gown billowing behind her. She gave Wortel a quick peck on the cheek and winked in Janie’s direction causing Wortel to feel the inevitable weight of defeat as the mother and daughter tag-team joined forces ready to go into battle.

  “I was studying
with friends Dad, I told you and Mum yesterday morning.”

  “That’s not a conversation I remember. Which friends?”

  “Would you like some toast and jam or cereal before you head off dear?”

  “Don’t change the subject Stella. Which friends were you studying with, Janie?”

  “I’m not changing the subject; I just want to make sure you are starting the day off with breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day. I would have thought as a member of the food sapiens community that would be something you’d understand.”

  Feeling his hackles rise, Wortel turned to face Stella forcing a smile onto his face. “Of course I understand that, and I’d prefer some toast and jam, but that’s not relevant. Now where were we?”

  Seizing the opportunity, Janie slipped away from the table and headed for the door. As she made her escape, her little brother Jack came toddling past, humming a nursery rhyme, oblivious to the chaos that was the Wortel family kitchen.

  “F-O-O-D,” cried Jack, pointing to the cereal box stationed on top of the fridge, well out of his reach.

  “No Jack, you’ve had too much of that already.” Stella looked at her husband and shook her head. “He’s obsessed with that cereal. It’s ridiculous but he’s eaten a full box to himself inside two days.”

  “F-O-O-D.”

  Wortel bent down and picked up his young son. “Now listen here young man, Mummy has said no, and that means no.”

  Jack looked at his dad, turned his eyes longingly towards the cereal and then back to his dad again. Wortel felt a twang in his heart and knew his resolve would be soon broken. Looking up, he saw Stella shoot him a look that could kill and decided that a slow, early death at the hands of his wife wasn’t the way to go. He took Jack across to his high chair, slipped his legs into the gap and strapped him in, before turning the chair away from the fridge. Jack, realising that he had been double-crossed by his father, began to scream, albeit in vain.

  “I’d best be setting off for work love,” Wortel said as he kissed Stella on the cheek, then turned to give Jack a goodbye kiss but was warned off by the glare on his angry son’s face and opted for a quick pat on the child’s head before heading for the door.

  “What time will you be home dear?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m due to give evidence in the Jaffy cake v Cookie tax evasion trial, and you know what happens once Augusto and Henrietta Cookie start to pontificate.”

  “Okay, well take care, and don’t let those chocolate oat bullies try to intimidate you.” Stella walked across to her husband, ran her hands down the front of his jacket, stepped back and nodded, approving her own work even though there was no obvious crease in the suit jacket in the first place.

  “They wouldn’t dare, not with the judge nearby. And besides when I’m on the stand, I’m one tough carrot.”

  Wortel took a slice of toast, carefully spread butter and jam on it, found his car keys, picked up his overcoat, and headed out of the front door. As he reached his front gate he stopped dead, his shoulders sagging.

  “Damn it,” he said aloud. “I never did find out who she was studying with.”

  The Food Related Crime Division was a specialised unit within the police service that focused on fighting crimes that occurred within the food sapiens community. Being a carrot who had worked within the police all of his adult life, Wortel was perfectly placed to head up the division, and he took great pride in leading the team, even if it was underfunded and occasionally undermined by those who felt uncomfortable with food sapiens in the police force. As a baby carrot, Wortel had always been clear as to the difference between right and wrong, and it was obvious to his parents, Eric and Aimee, from the moment when he successfully solved the mystery of the school dinner lady’s missing tabard, that he would have a career within the police force.

  Wortel came from a humble background, his parents working long hours in order to provide for him and his younger sister, Isabelle. He took his looks from his father, Eric, who was from the Imperator caste of carrots – strong in character, broad shouldered, good skin texture – whereas Isabelle was more like their mother, Aimee, who was from the Nantes caste – tall, thin and beautiful. His parents watched with pride on his graduation into the police force, their baby carrot, standing equal among homo sapiens and food sapiens officers.

  As children, Wortel and Isabelle were typical siblings, furiously protective of each other one minute then squabbling the next. And when the arguments overstepped the mark, Eric and Aimee would be on hand to bring calm and tranquillity back into the household. It was only on the rare occasions when the arguments were truly ferocious that their parents would draw an amorphous image of The snowman designed to scare baby carrots. For it was The snowman who would scour the neighbourhood late at night, searching, hunting, in need of a nose.

  Wortel was the more studious, more focused on his school work, whereas Isabelle was the more creative, more flamboyant and she channelled this into becoming a renowned artist in her field. Her many still life paintings, where she arranged humans to sit in a basket on a table and pose for hours, were legendary. And they sold for small fortunes. Isabelle lived in Cornwall, near to Lands End, where she could watch the sea crash against the rocks – her inspiration – and though she and Wortel did not see each other regularly, they made time to speak every weekend. The sale of her most famous work, Bowl of humans, allowed Isabelle to buy their parents a small cottage on the south coast where they could wind down into a quiet and happy retirement.

  Wortel was en route to the office when his radio buzzed into life, issuing him with the type of urgent instruction that caused his back to stiffen and his orange skin to prickle. Pulling the car over to the side of the road, he punched the postcode into his satnav before turning the vehicle around and heading towards Beaconborne Avenue. As he approached the scene he felt his stomach begin to knot, the usual familiar feeling and yet, ashamed as he was to admit it, he enjoyed the thrill of the chase once a case had begun. And yet it meant there was a victim, an as yet nameless soul who had suffered at the hands of another, or in this case, two victims killed at the hands of an apparent burglar who it seemed they had disturbed when they had returned home.

  He locked his car, slipped on his overcoat and took a few moments to gather his bearings. This was a quiet part of the city, not known for too much trouble other than the odd complaint about kids hanging around occasionally at night, and yet here he stood, just before 9am looking at the avenue swarming with police busy sealing the crime scene, knocking on doors talking to shocked neighbours, gathering statements. He spied a white tent being erected at the far end of the avenue, which looked completely out of place in this once peaceful part of suburbia that was now forever tainted by the shadow of death.

  Wortel made his way towards the murder scene taking in his surroundings, absorbing the environment. Wortel knew one of his strengths was his ability to spot the minutiae, the details that others overlooked. He also knew he had a tendency to think things others would never dare, and as he walked down Beaconborne Avenue he wondered to himself how many of the neighbours would be concerned about the impact these murders would have on their house prices.

  Despite his experience, Wortel was shocked when he stepped inside the tent. Sprawled on their own front steps were two badly beaten, mangled bodies, crushed faces – or more factually, what remained of their faces – contorted in pain and fear. Pieces of shell dusted the floor, albumen congealed in large puddles spreading from their bodies, the smell of rotting yolk polluting the air and launching an all-out assault on the senses. Wortel took out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose, fighting a losing battle to keep out the smell of the deceased.

  The street door was wide open and he looked through, noticing that the house appeared ransacked. He nodded to the young policeman guarding the door. He was no more than twenty years old, a strapping young man with a mop of blond hair that seemed to be seeking new ways of escaping from beneath his h
at. He stood upright, shoulders back, eyes looking straight ahead, never once straying to the two corpses on the floor, and all the while desperately trying to ignore the smell.

  “What’s your name son?”

  “It’s Leggetson sir.”

  “And is there a first name with that?”

  The young man smiled. “Robert, but most people call me Bobby.”

  Wortel smiled back, his ability to put people at ease shining through even in the most difficult of circumstances. “Bobby. Hmm, seems you picked the right career path with a name like that. How long have you been here?”

  “A few hours now sir. I was one of the first here and I’ve been making sure that no unauthorised personnel enter the house.”

  “Good job Bobby. And who is in the house at the moment?”

  “Sergeant Rubenstien and Dr Wilkinson. There appeared to be some, er, well blood or maybe yolk I guess, inside. They were looking at that, I think.”

  “Dr Wilkinson you say. Isn’t he a locum?”

  “Yes sir. Dr Richards was taken ill last night. Apparently she was out with her family at a restaurant and she’s suffered an allergic reaction to something she’s eaten. I’ve heard that her face ballooned up to almost twice its normal size, which to be fair must have been a sight for sore eyes. I mean it’s big enough at the best of times isn’t it…?”

  He heard himself mid-sentence and although his brain was shouting at him to stop, it was too late and the words cascaded from the back of his throat, across his tongue, evading his teeth, slipping from his lips. Bobby dropped his head, his face blushing a beetroot red colour at his verbal diarrhoea.

  “Well, that is a shame about Dr Richards,” said Wortel, carefully sidestepping the remark to avoid any further embarrassment, and yet at the same time wondering if it was truly possible for Dr Richards to have a face any larger than normal.

  With an image in his mind of Dr Richards being carried sideways into the ambulance so that her head fitted through the doors, Wortel carefully stepped over the eggshell pieces and into the front of the house.