“Hi Dad,” called Janie “This is Warren.”
“So I gather,” said Wortel. “Er, nice to meet you, I guess.”
“And you too sir,” said Warren, leaping from his seat and thrusting a paw towards Wortel, who jumped back slightly alarmed, which to be fair, tends to be the standard reaction when a rabbit steps towards a carrot with its arm outstretched.
Stella relieved Wortel of the shopping bags which were in danger of releasing the shopping everywhere, allowing him to shake Warren’s paw. “I’ll put these away dear; you get to know Warren a little more,” she said, putting a hand into the small of his back pushing him forwards. Wortel shot his wife a look as she hurried from view towards the sanctuary of the kitchen.
The evening seemed to drag on for far longer than Wortel cared to remember over a particularly excruciating dinner during which Warren described, in far more detail than was necessary, how rabbits are not nearly as rampant as they are made out to be. Having forced dinner and pudding down his increasingly bile-filled throat, Wortel let out a sigh of relief as Warren and Janie disappeared upstairs to begin work on their joint study project. “You’ve got to admit it’s odd,” whispered Wortel in his best hushed tones. “He’s a rabbit and she’s a carrot. It’s, well, weird is what it is.”
Stella shrugged and opened a packet of peanuts as they settled down in front of the TV.
“And who wears a powder puff blue suit and a top hat. He’s not a magician is he? I mean what’s he going to do, pull a human from it? And don’t get me started on the rickshaw.”
“He did say he was worried about the environment which was why he didn’t drive a car.”
“Fine, but use a bike not a rickshaw.”
“He makes some pocket money in between his study days by taxiing people about. I think he’s a budding entrepreneur.”
“He’s certainly something,” said Wortel suddenly noticing how quickly Stella was popping the peanuts. “Are you still hungry?”
“Not really, I just feel a little peckish,” said Stella throwing some peanuts in the air, before steadying herself to catch them in her open mouth as gravity took hold and sent them hurtling back towards her.
“After listening to Warren banging on about his not so rampant uncle I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to eat again.”
Stella nodded, while chewing earnestly. “That was a little much I agree,” she said splattering Wortel with a spray of chewed up peanuts.
Feeling like he was under armed attack from the splintered nuts, Wortel decided not to continue the conversation and turned up the volume on the rolling news report.
“The Chancellor today announced that the public finances were in much worse shape than expected with the black hole, now commonly known as an abyss, growing at an increasingly rapid rate. With tax revenues decreasing due to the collection agency not really caring whether large corporations paid their fair share, the Chancellor announced he had no option but to pursue his unpopular decision to introduce a food tax so that we were all in this together. The tax was originally challenged by Union bosses but they rescinded their objections when it became clear that the tax wouldn’t interfere with their own interests. The opposition party, WeKipped, were too laid back to comment, instead preferring to continue discussions as to whether Ned St Noballs was the right leader for the party, not because he had committed fratricide, but because he was at risk of poachers due to his giant front teeth.”
Wortel and Stella looked at each other. “Well that does it Stella; we need to win the lottery.”
“It’s not through a lack of trying my dear.”
“Either that or we’re working ’til we drop.”
“’Til we drop it is then.”
“And finally, in more upbeat news, Moxley Park zoo today welcomed a new arrival. Weighing in at over 500lbs and standing upright at almost 7 feet tall, Kikatika, a giant silverback, was unveiled. Arriving from Africa, it is hoped that Kikatika, who is the world’s largest silverback, will start to mate with the zoo’s female gorilla who so far has not produced any offspring. The current silverback, the unfortunately named Barron, will move into another part of the zoo. Moxley Park zoo hope the new attraction will bring a much needed boost to visitor numbers…”
Stella, munching on some more peanuts, let out a large sigh.
“What was that for?” asked Wortel.
“I was thinking about how the zoo is near that new complex Withering Heights. It’s really spoiled the view as you walk through the park.”
“Fatima Jaffy lives in Withering Heights you know.”
“Really?”
“Yes, she’s invited us over to see her when we are in the area.”
Stella pulled a face and Wortel nodded. “Don’t worry, it’s not an invite I intend to take up. Besides, all that we have to talk about would be the Cookie biscuit case.”
“Do you know how the Cookies are, you know, what with the dunking and all?”
“It’s their own fault. It was a self-inflicted wound.”
“Yes, yes, I know it’s the law and all, it just seems a little barbaric.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“If they were tofu they would have been made to cross a busy road in blindfolds to prove they weren’t chicken.”
7
A pickled pear
The meeting with Alex Pine had shaken Professor Partridge. So much so that he’d needed to polish off another four shots of whiskey. Well, the first two were for the shock; the last two were for the road. Feeling as though he still had a set of eyes on him, Partridge waved a hand in the air at the manager of the Strawberry Strip Club, Victoria Plum.
Victoria Plum was a short woman in her mid-twenties with a sparky personality that suited the owners of the Strawberry Strip Club. Her appointment as manager gave the club a degree of credibility it had never previously achieved, and the introduction of an expensive membership scheme, at her request, had eradicated some of the more seedy types that had frequented the club when it first opened.
Plum saw Partridge wave, sauntered over and perched on the stool next to him.
“Good to see you Perry. How have you been?” Plum made a point of talking to her members on first name terms as she felt it improved the client experience. She always knew her clients’ preferences as well, and she knew she would always find Partridge at the bar rather than watching the gyrating passion fruits.
“Have you had any trouble with a young man?”
Victoria Plum looked a little startled. “Personally or professionally?”
“Here at the club. I was accosted by your chum, you know, that anti-GM fellow.”
“He’s not a friend of mine and no, we’ve not had any bother from him here,” she replied tartly, although it didn’t disguise a trace of pain in her voice.
“So he’s not inside?”
“He’s never been a member here, no.”
“Hmph.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I feel as though he’s watching me.”
“Well he can’t be here, and everyone else has their eyes on Dominique and Chantelle,” said Plum nodding in the direction of the stage.
Although far from convinced, Partridge smiled, drained his glass dry and signalled to the barman for another.
Plum stood up, rubbed Partridge on the shoulder and headed towards her office. She often found herself talking to the Professor as he sat drinking alone, and while she knew he was desperately lonely, she did find it rather hard going on occasions. Tonight was one of those evenings.
She looked around the club and in the far corner of the room noticed a face she’d seen just once or twice but as yet had not managed to get to first name terms. He sat upright, collar turned up on his jacket, fedora pulled down close to his eyes. Although the Strawberry Strip Club was now a members-only establishment, it still took some of the newer members a little while before they felt completely at ease in their surroundings. Victoria’s n
ew guy obviously didn’t want to be recognised just yet.
Making a mental note to look up his name so that she could go over and say hello, she also had the distinct impression that, although he was facing the stage, something else, or someone else, was his focus of attention. Being far from unattractive, Victoria felt uncomfortable at the idea of being the object of the new member’s desire. While being a little flirtatious was part and parcel of the job, being lusted after most certainly was not.
An hour or so had passed since Victoria had spoken to Professor Partridge, and while she could see from her office that he was still positioned at the bar, albeit far more lopsided than before, she couldn’t shake from her mind what he had said. “I feel as though he’s watching me.”
Victoria had previously had problems with Alex Pine but as for breaking into the club to get at the Professor, no, she just couldn’t see him going that far. He was all mouth and no action.
As she debated going back to talk to him again the tall figure with the fedora came and sat next to the Professor exactly where Victoria had been just a short while earlier. ‘Saves me a job,’ she thought to herself, before turning back to the computer screen to continue what felt like a never ending battle to wade through her paperwork.
Another hour slipped past and, in need of a comfort break, Victoria Plum stood, stretched as far as her little arms would let her, and left her office, locking the door behind her. She noticed the club had emptied a little and that the bar was now devoid of its only two customers.
“Something you said?” she called across to the barman who was busy doing nothing.
“Aye, something like that, although I think the new fellow might have helped.”
Victoria looked quizzically at the barman and gestured for him to continue.
“I don’t know really, he sits down next to the professor, they start talking quite intensely and the next thing I know is that the professor is staggering off home.”
Victoria smiled, gave a little shrug and headed off to the ladies’ room. Venturing into the corridor she walked past the stairwell and towards the toilets located at the far end. As she did a quiet, yet audible groan caught her attention.
She turned around but found herself alone in the corridor. Walking back to the stairwell she heard another groan and there, just out of first sight at the bottom of the stairs she saw the legs of someone sprawled on the floor. Accidents didn’t often happen, but when people had been drinking there was always a chance. Victoria hurried down the stairs, racking her brain trying hard to remember her first aid training.
As she reached the bottom of the stairwell she recoiled in horror at the sight. Professor Partridge lay stricken on the floor, his head crushed, juices flowing everywhere. And across his body lay branches, leaves and mud, deliberately thrown across his body.
He was barely alive, inching steadily towards death, and yet Victoria could hear that he was mumbling something. She moved closer, trying to avoid the juices that were spilling onto the floor. There was nothing she could do to help him, as even with her limited first aid knowledge she knew the professor was dying. All she felt she could do was to comfort him in his final moments and try to understand what it was that he was mumbling.
Professor Partridge sensed someone kneeling close by, and realising his time was short, he summoned his last remaining breath and spoke. The last thing he saw before death took him was the look of shock and terror in the eyes of Victoria Plum.
Day 4
8
Add 4 chefs and a pinch of salt
Wortel hated media briefings. No ifs or buts. He hated them. He knew Chief Superintendent Archibald would try to hog the limelight. He knew the press would try to get him to say too much, and they always seemed to make comments about his dress sense. And all because he once wore a duck coloured suit. And with Dorothy guaranteed to take up a position at the back of the conference room, pulling faces at him to try to get him to laugh, he found the whole media briefing a greater ordeal than trying to listen to yet another banal recording from the Sinatra impersonator Michael Bubblegum.
Wortel drove his car into the station and began the usual battle of trying to find a space among the throng of reporters who were busy chain smoking, checking their Smartphones or working out how to hack someone else’s voicemail. Keeping his head down, Wortel locked the car door and scurried past the reporters towards the sanctuary of the police building, only looking up as he reached the front steps to make sure he didn’t fall arse end upwards. The last thing he needed was his backside making the front page of the papers.
“Ah Wortel, you’re here. Excellent, just excellent,” cried Chief Superintendent Archibald as Wortel entered the main reception. “I was getting a little worried that you would be a no-show.”
“You told me I had to be here otherwise I best not show my face again,” replied Wortel a little too sullenly for Archibald’s liking.
“That might be true, but you don’t normally take that much notice of what I have to say do you?”
“Now that’s a little unfair,” protested Wortel, who suddenly realised that it was actually anything but unfair and quickly changed track. “That’s a mighty sharp tie you’re wearing today sir. Charity shop purchase or won in a tombola, which was it?”
“Neither actually,” said Archibald, beaming that someone had noticed his blue and grey speckled woollen tie. “Good old wifey knitted it for me. Matches the underwear.”
Wortel’s mind recoiled at the imagery and, trying hard to not to dry heave, he headed into the main conference room to face the pack of journalists. Positioned discreetly at the back of the room, hot drink in hand was Dorothy. She gave a wave to Wortel who offered a gesture back that was definitely not hello in the universally recognised code of sign language.
The press conference began in usual fashion with Chief Superintendent Archibald reading a pre-prepared statement littered with deliberately large words by the communications team, as part of their ongoing mission to try to trip up the old goat in front of the reporters. The closest they came was during a briefing following the MadCow McBeef case where they slipped in the word Machiavellianism.
Archibald finished his statement and after inviting questions from the reporters he fished out his handkerchief, mopped his sweating brow and puffed out his cheeks. He sat down next to Wortel, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Wortel, what does tintinnabulation mean?”
“Not a foggiest sir. Thought you did great in the circumstances.”
“So did I. I do like the way the media team make me sound sophisticated by using these type of words. Don’t you agree Wortel?”
Wortel let the question hang in the air and instead acknowledged Bethany Righteous of the Daily Melancholy who wanted to ask the first question.
“DI Wortel. My readers at the Daily Melancholy will be most perturbed by the expense of the trial. Was it worth it?”
Wortel smiled inwardly, as according to Bethany Righteous her readers were always perturbed. In fact, he thought they would be perturbed at the notion of being perturbed. “We prefer to judge a trial based on the success of the outcome rather than its cost, and to that end, I’m pleased that justice was done. The Cookies can never claim to be cake based again and they will be forced to repay their outstanding tax.”
“Jarrod Worthy of the Notso Independent news. DI Wortel, can you tell my readers where you purchased that suit? It doesn’t appear to be one of your usual numbers.”
“I’m only answering questions related to the trial,” said Wortel, who looked past Jarrod Worthy in search of the next question. In spite of his best efforts, his eyes met with Dorothy who was busy gurning at him from the back of the room. Trying to prevent himself from laughing Wortel decided to call out for the next question. He opened his mouth and went to speak, only for every single mobile phone in the room to spring into life, each one beeping, honking and whistling the arrival of a text message. The entire journalistic pack reached for their devices leaving Wortel
and Archibald looking confused.
Dorothy edged herself forward and tried to read over the shoulder of the reporter closest to her who was shielding his phone acutely aware of her presence behind him.
Bethany Righteous was the first to speak. “My readership of the Daily Melancholy will be most concerned, maybe even perturbed, at the news that death threats have been sent to four celebrity chefs this morning. What is your department doing about this?”
“Pardon?” replied Archibald.
“You do know about the death threats don’t you?” pushed Bethany Righteous a growing sense of indignation rising in her voice. “My readership will be outraged at the lack of response from the police force. You clearly have no control of this situation.”
“Miss Righteous, if I may,” said Dorothy stepping forward. “Your source has said that the death threats arrived this morning?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Well then DI Wortel and Chief Superintendent Archibald would have been here with you in this briefing when the news broke. They would not have been appraised of how their team is handling the situation.”
“Ah, well I suppose that makes sense.”
“And seeing as you have information related to the death threats I suggest you release it to me, as otherwise I can well imagine that your readership will be outraged, maybe even perturbed, at the idea that the Daily Melancholy was withholding evidence in an important case.”
Dorothy winked at Wortel and Archibald as a clearly stumped Bethany Righteous handed over her mobile to reveal the breaking news that Llewellyn Morris, Leah Brown, Scottie Rodgers and Donatella DiMaggio, four of the leading celebrity chefs, had all received death threats that morning.
Having finally gathered some semblance of control following the media briefing fiasco, Wortel and Dorothy managed to ascertain the location of each celebrity chef. Leaving Dorothy to continue pouring oil on the troubled waters at the station, Wortel set off for the TV studios to meet Llewellyn Morris, head chef of the reality TV show Can’t cook – yes you f*****g will7.
Addicted to Death Page 6