Addicted to Death

by Matthew Redford

  As Wortel made his way through the TV studios he realised he had never appreciated how many people were on set, behind the camera. It was daft really, but it always seemed as though it was just the chef welcoming the viewer into their family kitchen. The one thing the chefs all had in common however was how their ‘small’ family kitchens always looked as though they could fit an entire battalion of the famous Gherkin regiment inside.

  Stella loved the show, and although he never let on, so did Wortel. Having watched nearly every episode, it felt a little surreal looking upon the familiar kitchen set-up, this time in real life rather than through a 32 inch TV screen.

  Being a secret fan of the show he already knew that Llewellyn Morris was a hard-faced, tough talking Welshman who was not afraid of the odd profanity. In fact, his TV show was littered with them to the degree that for a thirty minute show Llewellyn Morris often sounded like his vocal setting was switched to a continuous bleep, so much so that many first time viewers believed they had developed an acute form of tinnitus.

  Llewellyn Morris was also renowned for being the only Olympian-turned-chef, although the link seemed somewhat tenuous owing to a surprisingly limited record of any participation at an Olympic Games. In fact, bar the odd photo of him in a changing room with some other athletes, it was debatable how far his sporting career had actually gone. Not that this prevented Llewellyn from bragging about his Olympic achievements at every available opportunity.

  Wortel was expecting a rough ride, given Llewellyn had just received a death threat, and on being taken to his dressing room by a runner, he took a deep breath before knocking on the door. A familiar voice commanded him to enter, and Wortel quickly did as he was instructed.

  But what confronted Wortel was not the strapping, swearing bruiser of a man who nearly always wore a tight white tee-shirt and jeans, but a strapping, non-swearing bruiser dressed in a pink and green smoking jacket, left hand immersed in the front pocket, check trousers, loafers and a long ornate cigarette holder held limply in his right hand. His blond hair, freshly washed, was combed back across his scalp and emphasised the ruggedness of his face and the extra weight he had recently put on.

  “I can tell by your face that you’re shocked at my size!” shrieked Morris pulling the already stretched smoking jacket across his stomach further as Wortel closed the door.

  “I’m not, Mr Morris,” lied Wortel, who to be fair was more surprised at his dress sense and the campness in the voice now coming from the tall Welshman opposite him. “Besides, we all carry a little extra holiday weight at this time of year don’t we?”

  “Well, we would if we’ve been on holiday, but the best I can muster is a dirty weekend in Rhyl with my partner Juanday.”

  “That’s better than a kick in the teeth.”

  “No it was a dirty weekend. The place was filthy, Juanday and I spent the entire Saturday cleaning, and by Sunday we were too tired to go out, which was such a shame as we had the most delightful matching cream suits to wear.”

  “How disappointing,” said Wortel wondering how on earth to wrestle control of the conversation.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke do you, only it’s been such a trauma receiving that letter.”

  Morris’ voice cracked as he said the word and he waved his hand towards his dresser. Wortel grabbed the opening with both hands and walked across the dressing room, feeling a gentle breeze tickle his neck from the oscillating ceiling fan. He pushed aside the mascara and the male girdle which sat on the dresser and looked at the death threat. Wortel slipped on a pair of latex gloves, much to the interest of Llewellyn who was soon disappointed when he realised that Wortel was taking care to seal the death threat in a secure plastic evidence bag.

  “Do you know anyone that may want to see you come to harm?” asked Wortel.

  “Well, apart from those darn veggies – no offence – I can only think of that jumped up little upstart Scottie Rodgers. He had the audacity to call me fat in his newspaper column.” As he uttered the word fat, the smoking jacket seemed to pull itself tighter on instinct.

  “Well, his problem you see, is that he knows I am a superior chef who cooks for the stars, whereas he targets the poor masses. And as for his fast cooking, well I’m sorry but that is just a gimmick. He’s probably jealous because I’m a former Olympian. Did you know that, DI Wortel?”

  As Wortel wondered how best to side step the question, the dressing room door suddenly flew open and in burst a ball of rainbow-coloured energy.

  “My poor Llewy, tell Juanday what’s happened?” A five foot nothing Brazilian born samba dancer glided across the floor, hips rotating ten to the dozen, and threw his arms around the six foot alleged Olympian.

  “Detective Inspector Wortel, please meet my partner, Juanday Illflyaway.”

  “Pleased to meet you Mr Illflyaway,” said Wortel “And if you don’t mind, I think I will do just that.”

  “Just what?”

  “Fly away.”

  “I don’t get it,” said a confused looking Juanday.

  “Nor me,” replied an equally confused looking Llewellyn.

  Wortel, wishing he had not bothered with an attempt at humour, looked sheepishly at the rather odd looking couple before him. “I have everything I need from you Mr Morris, so I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Why didn’t he just say so Llewy?” asked Juanday still confused.

  “He’s a veggie. They’re very strange creatures you know.”

  Wortel, slightly stressed from his meeting with Llewellyn Morris, headed out of town and into the countryside to meet Leah Brown, the recently sacked host of Masterbaker8 the popular TV show and rival to Can’t cook – yes you f*****g will.

  Passing through the countryside, Wortel wondered how different his life might have been had he not gone into the police force. He could see himself as a farm hand, and as he pulled into the drive of Leah Brown’s country home, he could all but see how his life would have panned out. He locked the car, looked across the apple fields, and walked towards the front door. Yes, the country life would have been for him and he knew this visit to Leah Brown, his favourite celebrity chef, would confirm his view.

  Wortel rapped on the door using the rolling pin shaped knocker and waited. And he waited. And he waited a little longer until eventually he knocked again only this time much harder. He heard some shuffling from inside, the rummaging of keys, and what sounded like a bottle being smashed before the front door was unlocked.

  Given Leah Brown had called the police because of receiving a death threat she seemed remarkably relaxed about opening her front door without checking who was there first. And then Wortel realised why. The normally uptight, prim Leah Brown stood before him, gin bottle in hand, shirt mis-buttoned and only one shoe on. She looked as though she had been pulled through a hedge backwards, although that was really an insult to anyone who had recently been pulled through a hedge backwards.

  “Yeeess, what do you two want?”

  “I’m sorry Ms Brown, but there is only one of me.”

  “Really? Looks like two from where I’m standing – hah!” And with a snort, Leah Brown took a deep swig from the already guzzled gin bottle.

  “I’m here about the death threat Ms Brown.”

  “Why, who threatened you? You should call the police.”

  “I am the police.”

  “Then why are you reporting it to me?”

  “No, you’ve reported a death threat to us.”

  “I did?”

  “You did.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well if you two say so then it must be true.”

  “There’s still only one of me.”

  “Is more than one carrot a punnet? A punnet of carrots? No, that’s not right is it? And I’m a chef, well an ex-chef now…”

  “Ma’am, the death threat.”

  “Finally, about time. Thought you’d never ask,” said Leah Brown as she shoved the letter into Wortel’s chest, sw
igged from the gin bottle once more and slammed the door shut.

  Wortel eventually managed to get Leah back to the door but the conversation, rather than being face to face, continued through the letterbox. After much coaxing he learnt that Leah suspected she had received the death threat from ‘that tart Donatella DiMaggio’, who’d stolen her much loved Masterbaker show or, if not her, then it must be those veggies – no offence intended.

  Wortel returned to his car, fastened his seat belt and set off down the winding country lane. As he contemplated that meeting an idol may not be advisable, a distant rumbling sound caught his attention. Appearing from nowhere was a large delivery truck belonging to Carbon Footprint Ltd travelling far too fast for the country lanes. Wortel hit his brakes hard and turned his car sharply into the bushes as the delivery truck whizzed past without a second glance. Wortel shook his head, made a mental note to get in touch with the company about their reckless driving habits, and decided that maybe the countryside was not for him after all.

  Grabbing a sandwich lunch at a local public house, Wortel made the short journey across the countryside to Huntingdon Hall, home of Scottie Rodgers, inner-city school boy who without any shadow of doubt had bettered himself.

  Pulling up the gravelled drive of Huntingdon Hall, Wortel felt a pang of jealousy at the good fortune of Scottie Rodgers. His legend went before him: inner city kid, joined a gang, found cooking, cleaned up his act and got a TV show which was aimed at the young. He often found himself running around the kitchen shouting the words ‘brill’ and ‘pukka’, while doing lots of his trademark ‘FAST’ cooking. He really was quite an irritating little shit, not that Wortel formed opinions about potential victims before he met them…well, not that often anyway.

  Glancing in his rear view mirror Wortel saw two gardeners going about their business, busily trimming hedges into a topiary version of Scottie Rodgers himself. Irritating and arrogant, a great mix. Eventually arriving at the end of the drive, after what seemed a twenty-minute journey, Wortel approached the manor doors to be met by Arthur Crown, the longstanding butler of Huntingdon Hall.

  “Master Rodgers has been h’expecting you. Do come this way please, er, how does one address a carrot?”

  “Detective Inspector will do,” sniped Wortel feeling his blood pressure rise some more.

  “Very good master carrot. Do come this way.”

  Arthur Crown led Wortel into a magnificent reception area which glistened brightly and screamed money. As Wortel waited for the pretentious little shit Rodgers – not that he’d formed an opinion of course – he looked at the numerous portraits on the wall which showed many different family members in hunting outfits, military uniforms and other grand displays. All bore a resemblance to Scottie Rodgers. “Bizarre,” Wortel muttered to himself.

  “What ho old bean, well old carrot perhaps. Mwah ha ha ha.”

  Wortel turned around and faced Scottie Rodgers, well; it looked like Scottie Rodgers but certainly didn’t sound like him.

  “I see you’re admiring the family tree. We’ve always owned Huntingdon Hall, couldn’t say for how long overall, yonks really. That’s old grandpapa up there in the uniform. Claims he shot the Kaiser and was on first name terms with Adolf himself, but we just think that’s a tall story. Mwah ha ha ha.”

  Wortel’s head started to hurt and he rubbed his temple with two fingers.

  “I suppose you’re here about this death threat thingy, all rather exciting wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve never considered death threats to be exciting sir.”

  “Call me Scottie please. All my friends do. I wouldn’t even let my batman at Harrow call me sir. Quite the rebel I was you know. Mwah ha ha ha.”

  “You attended Harrow. I was led to believe that you grew up in the East End of London.”

  “That’s my TV persona old chap. We all have them, there’s not one chef who resembles their TV persona. Have you met dear old Leah. I call her Lushy Leah. Always three parts, but when she’s sober, my word she’s sharp. Only happens every now and then, I think she follows the moon you know. Still best not say too much, she had a fling with old Arthur back in the day.”

  “So you all play characters?”

  Rodgers nodded, took a deep breath and suddenly spouted out in a most convincing cockney accent “…so tonight we’re cooking jacket spuds…chuck ’em in the pan, sling ’em in the oven, and let’s cook ’em…FAST. You might be suspicious, but trust me, it’s nutritious.”

  It wasn’t often that Wortel was lost for words, yet he felt that one such occasion was fast approaching.

  “So Llewellyn Morris isn’t a swearing bruiser, Leah Brown isn’t as prim and proper as she makes out and you’re not an inner city kid who has done good?”

  “Spot on old chap.”

  “So what should I expect from Donatella DiMaggio then?”

  “The ride of your life. Mwah ha ha ha ha.”

  Wortel left shortly afterwards having established that Scottie Rodgers had a first class degree in physics and engineering; that he secretly loved Donatella DiMaggio who Wortel was off to see next, and he thought that Llewellyn Morris aka Camp Freddie (Rodgers’ words not Wortel’s) was probably sending the messages.

  Either him or the veggies – no offence intended.

  With a certain degree of trepidation, Wortel had arranged to meet Donatella DiMaggio at her home in West London. Wortel stepped into the lift, pressed the button for the top floor penthouse and wondered what character the Italian beauty Donatella DiMaggio actually was. Her on screen persona was someone who had a calm butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth appearance, although she was prone to the occasional innuendo.

  He rang the doorbell and heard padded footsteps approaching. Donatella opened the door and stood before Wortel starkers. She looked him up and down and tutted.

  “Did they not tell you I am a naturist and I will not have clothed individuals, homo sapiens or food sapiens, in my home?”

  “No ma’am, I’m afraid they didn’t,” said Wortel not knowing where to look. “And besides, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to turn up without clothes. I’d have nowhere to keep my ID,” he added, lamely flashing it at the declothed TV chef.

  “Oh Detective Inspector Wortel, you tease. Look I’ll make a slight exception for you; I didn’t think you’d be happy with the arrangement. Come this way, go through that door and change and I will meet you in the living room in five.”

  Wortel entered what turned out to be the guest bedroom, looked at what was on the bed, sighed, wondered how he managed to find himself in these situations and changed out of his suit.

  He’d never conducted an interview in the buff before and never with his modesty covered by a white chef’s apron tied firmly, very firmly, around his waist. DiMaggio was much happier when Wortel came into the living room. Wortel wasn’t sure if the upsurge in Donatella’s mood was caused by his lack of clothing or because she was busily wiping away an odd looking white substance from the coffee table. Deciding to ignore whatever Donatella had been up to while he changed he asked whether he could see the death threat. Donatella, now slightly hyperactive, grabbed the death threat and thrust it towards Wortel. As he expected, it was identical to the other letters.

  “Any ideas who might want to harm you ma’am?”

  “I’m sure Scottie Rodgers would love to get his hands on this ample bosom,” she said, waving a hand across her upper body as though Wortel needed any help identifying where her ample bosom was hiding. “But he doesn’t have a hope in hell. Much too posh for me. I prefer my men, or carrots, more normal, if you catch my drift.”

  Wortel thought he was in danger of catching much more than he’d bargained for and turned the conversation back to the death threat.

  “Anyone else ma’am?”

  Sensing the rebuff, Donatella continued. “Certainly not little Llewy. He’s so adorable and much happier in his skin than you seem to be. Llewy and Juany are practically throwing their clothes off in recept
ion before the lift arrives. They’ve been warned you know.”

  “You don’t say?” said Wortel far from surprised.

  “Oh yes. Anyone else, not Leah, no, far too pissed, excuse the French. That only leaves the veggies – no offence intended.”

  Wortel, now fully clothed, sat in his car and called Dorothy who answered almost immediately.

  “Dotty. I’ve no idea who sent the death threats, but I’ve learnt one thing today which is that these TV chefs, they’re all nutjobs.”

  “Boss.”

  “It’s true they are all bonkers. Not one of them acts the same in real life as they do on TV. It’s one big act.”

  “Boss. Can you just stop and listen to me please?”

  “What’s wrong Dorothy?” said Wortel picking up on the tone in Dorothy’s voice.

  “We’ve just received a call from the Strawberry Strip Club. They’ve found the body of Professor Partridge the Minister for DAFaRT. It sounds like he’s been murdered.”

  7 Sponsored by Super Clean Potty Mouthwash

  8 Sponsored by Innuendo Fandango – let’s dance around what that really meant…

  9

  The Strawberry Strip Club

  The flashing neon sign advertising the Strawberry Strip Club blinked rhythmically on and off, keeping to its own throbbing beat, untouched by the commotion going on inside. Wortel straightened his tie and ran his hand through his green, spiky hair as he climbed the front stairs to enter the club. Eyeing the dark dingy entrance that waited to greet him, Wortel wondered what den of iniquity he would find within.

  Nodding to the police officer on guard, Wortel made his way down the corridor which widened into a landing. He looked at the wall signs: