Addicted to Death

by Matthew Redford

  “Mr Pine. As one homo sapiens to another let me be frank. Don’t piss me about because I have an uncanny ability to dig and dig and dig until I find the piece of evidence that unlocks a case and proves that my instincts were right in the first place. My instincts are telling me that you don’t really believe in this genetically modified food bullshit you are spouting, but that it is a front to hide something else.”

  Alex Pine sat smarting in his seat like a child just being scolded by his mother. “Like what exactly?” he said sullenly.

  “Well let me explain. When this photograph came into our possession I did a little background reading on you. I’m sure you won’t be that surprised to know you are quite easy to find on Google given your ‘campaign’. So my very quick research shows that you started all of this malarkey around six months ago. You gained a university degree and had taken up a position at the top pension firm, Whoopsthere-go-your-savings. Life seemed to be good for you. But then you quit and start this campaign. Now that strikes me as odd.”

  “Let’s just say that I had a wakeup call.”

  “A wakeup call. Ah, okay then.”

  Dorothy turned her head away from Alex Pine and looked at Wortel.

  “A woman’s involved.”

  “What?” spluttered a reddening Alex Pine.

  “Yep. Look at his reaction. His cheeks have gone pink and his voice has gone up a few octaves. Definitely the involvement of a woman. One I would suggest he was pretty much crazy about. So what happened, Alex? Did she dump you? Did you dial up the crazy a bit too much?”

  Alex never answered but the look on his face told Dorothy she had just scored a direct hit. Wortel sat back in his seat and admired Dorothy’s uncanny ability to hit the mark more often than not.

  “I think you’re right Sergeant Knox. You might want to look into that a little more and see what you find out. Now Mr Pine,” said Wortel turning back to now flustered suspect. “Why did you confront Charles von Blimff and then steal his wallet?”

  Alex Pine felt disorientated at the change of pace and direction the interview had just taken. He sat back in his chair shaking his head.

  “Hold on, this isn’t right. Look I know von Blimff runs AstraArms and they do food testing and other stuff but you can never get near him because of his security guards.”

  “That’s not what he is claiming Mr Pine. He says you confronted him a few nights back, he pushed you out of the way and his wallet was stolen in the melee.”

  “No way. I’d like to get close to him but you don’t stand a chance.”

  Dorothy and Wortel looked at each other.

  “And if you did get close to him Mr Pine, what exactly would you do? The same as you did to Professor Partridge?”

  Wortel and Dorothy left the interview room some hours later knowing that with every passing minute it was becoming less likely they could find any evidence, visual or forensic, which placed Alexander Pine inside the Strawberry Strip Club. He wasn’t denying confronting Professor Partridge on the evening of his murder, but that was barely enough evidence to justify a warrant to search his house let alone charge him with murder. At best, they would be able to keep him in overnight and have another crack at him in the morning.

  Outside the interview room Dorothy and Wortel compared notes and although they had started to feel increasingly despondent, they decided to pin their hopes on an overnight forensic breakthrough. The desk sergeant filled in the paperwork and suggested that Dorothy and Wortel pray to the gods of DNA. It was the most sensible thing they had heard in hours.

  Wortel signed the paperwork and he and Dorothy trudged up the stairs back to the office. “I’m going to go and see my new best friends, the celebrity chefs, first thing in the morning. Let’s hope one of them has remembered something. Can I leave it with you to find out as much as you can about Alex Pine and his, well, lady friend, whoever she may be?”

  “Lady friend. Really boss. What century are you in?”

  “Don’t start, you know what I meant. If you explore that angle can you send one half of tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb to AstraArms to re-interview the colleagues of Benedict Blacktail while the other goes back to Beaconborne Avenue to speak with the neighbours. Let’s ask the neighbours if they remember seeing Professor Partridge at the Blacktails’ home. It’s a long shot but if you don’t ask…”

  Dorothy nodded, but stayed silent.

  “You think we’re wasting our time don’t you?”

  “No, we need to explore those angles. It’s just that we’ve forgotten something.”

  “What’s that?” asked Wortel racking his brains.

  “Victoria Plum. She’s been a no-show today. Leave it with me. I’ll follow up on why she never came into the station like you asked.”

  10 Sponsored by the artist Sugar Cubist

  Day 6

  14

  Musa Acuminata Humongous

  The early morning breeze blew through the orchard gently awakening the apple trees whose branches swayed rhythmically from side to side. The sun began to break through the early morning mist, the rays of light brushing the floor encouraging the dew to dry. The orchard itself stood on the bank of a weaving, rambling stream that trickled forward, the water constantly moving in its never ending search of a final destination.

  It was a beautiful morning; tranquil, calm, still. Everything Musa wasn’t.

  He sat on the river bank his mind racing. It was gone, that much he was sure. The question was where? He had been so careful; well, at least he thought he had been. He made sure he was never recognised, never seen long enough for someone to describe him. So they could say he was tall. So they could say he wore a dark jacket and a hat. But facially no one could describe him. The fedora hid his features and he was always careful to keep his gaze down, to stay in the background unnoticed until it was his time to shine. And when he shone, then they wished they had taken notice of him.

  Benedict and Darcy Blacktail, that drunken old fool Partridge. Musa recalled the fear in their eyes when they saw him at his full height. Oh they noticed him then. His strength; his dominance; his speed; his ruthlessness. But Musa knew something was wrong. He had been careless. His hand instinctively went to his jacket. It was gone and that meant trouble.

  He couldn’t tell the Master. No, that would spell certain death. He had been spared once when he was much younger and the Master had caught him mid burglary. Musa had eyed the property for weeks, working out the best way in, how to avoid setting off the security alarms. When he entered the property it had all gone to plan; alarms disabled, limited noise; it was all going so smoothly. Right up until the point when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  The Master had seen him earlier that week and rather than increase security he allowed Musa to break in. Realising Musa had found a gap in his security arrangements, the Master waited to greet him. Musa braced himself expecting to the feel the rip of a bullet through his fleshy skin and yet instead he received an offer. A life for a life.

  The Master congratulated Musa on helping him identify that his security was lax. He nodded to what was suspended in the far cabinet. There, glistening among the family silver, was a large spoon, a cookery award which had been won a generation before. The Master despised the spoon as a child, its garishness, its tackiness, how out of place it was in the family home. And now the Master was presenting it to him as a weapon of choice.

  “Yours,” the Master said. “And I think I will soon have a job arising in security if you are willing to create the vacancy. You are just a petty criminal at the moment. Stay with me and soon your mere presence in a room will be enough to send shockwaves through even the most powerful of men.”

  Musa knew what needed to be done as he opened the cabinet door and placed his hand on the cold metal spoon. While he had never killed before he couldn’t deny the surge of electricity which shot down his spine, his veins filling with adrenaline, boosting his verve. He returned within 15 minutes; his first ever kill and yet
already he knew it wouldn’t be his last. The bond was formed. He followed his Master wherever he went, protecting him as his right hand man.

  The memories he recalled were so vivid, as fresh as the breeze which blew across his skin, and yet in reality, it was from a bygone age. And now, as he sat on the bank of the river he saw that he had been as slapdash as the former security guard he had battered to death all those years before.

  History was repeating itself. How had he let his happen?

  He rose from the river bank and began to walk through the orchard, which was set out in a rectangular shaped grid, the recently mowed blades of grass which carpeted each row standing straight, stretching and pointing towards the sun. The fresh apples glistened in the early morning sun, looking so ripe that Musa felt they were calling out to him. He stopped and paused, yes they were calling, but to each other, not him.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Never seen him before. He’s an odd looking fellow don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, really weird.”

  “Is he a different variety of apple?”

  “No. We have such rosy skin, he’s practically jaundiced.”

  Musa walked on trying to ignore the gossiping apples whose chatter continued to grow incessantly. In the distance he saw movement. Musa strained his eyes. It was a man maybe late forties, wearing green wellington boots, with a large wheelbarrow. He heaved it forward, wheeling it to the next tree before reaching up and caressing the apples, picking only those he felt were ready. Musa crouched down low, not wanting to be seen. He had come out this morning to try to clear his mind and now here he was, hiding, unarmed in the middle of an orchard. He looked around and decided to leave the way he had come.

  “He’s a sneaky one, look at the way he’s hiding.”

  “He doesn’t want Mr Bramley to see him.”

  “I bet he is an apple rustler.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Well, what else is he doing then?”

  “Hmm. Good point. Best get old Bramley’s attention quickly.”

  “Mr Bramley. Help, help.”

  The apples began to shout in unison causing a swell of panic to rise in Musa’s chest. Realising that Mr Bramley was making his way through the orchard to where he was hiding, Musa felt something he had not felt in years; fear. It was normally the other way around, he instilled fear in others and now, he found himself here, one careless mistake leading to another. Musa stood to his full height and roared. No words, just a primal scream, acting as an outlet for his panic.

  The roar ripped through the orchard, piercing the serenity of the morning, violating the peace. Mr Bramley stopped dead; shocked to his core at the noise that had just erupted from whoever it was ahead of him. He saw the tall figure standing, screaming, and just when he thought he had seen it all, Mr Bramley’s whole world began to fall apart in front of his very eyes.

  The apples, so appalled at the gut wrenching roar which was emitting from Musa, began to fall from the trees hitting the floor. With the vibrations rocketing from tree to tree, the primal scream was replaced with the sound of the apples, one by one, collapsing from their branches, gravity causing them to thud to the floor. And then, in a final shocking act, they split into multiple pieces. Each individual piece of fruit, each variety, each apple, crumbling.

  In the distance a pale and horrified Mr Bramley locked eyes with Musa, who in turn did something he had never done before in his life.

  Musa turned and ran.

  15

  Too many cooks spoil the broth

  It was against his better judgement that Wortel had decided to revisit his favourite four celebrity chefs starting with the voluptuous Donatella DiMaggio. They hadn’t made any progress with the death threats and Wortel wondered, more in hope than expectation, whether one of the chefs may have remembered something since they had last spoken.

  Resolving not to conduct this interview in the altogether, Wortel alighted from the lift and rang the doorbell. An angry raised voice from within came closer before the door swung open. Donatella, clearly upset and reddened, looked at Wortel, beckoned him in and continued arguing into her mobile phone.

  “Who the hell gave you permission to spend that much money on the credit card?”

  Donatella started to turn a deeper shade of puce.

  “He is my former husband as you well know. And he has no right to authorise that purchase.”

  Donatella paused.

  “I’ll have you know I am no longer a friend of Charlie and I do not depend on him thank you very much. We only had dealings with each other once or twice this year. You’ll pay for this, mark my words.”

  Donatella hung up and threw the mobile across the room so it landed on the nearest sofa. Taking a moment to compose herself she turned to Wortel.

  “My dear DI Wortel, so lovely to see you again, and may I say that shirt colour amplifies your good looks. You really are a most handsome carrot.”

  “Thank you Ms DiMaggio. Is everything okay?” Wortel asked gesturing towards the mobile.

  “It’s fine.” Donatella’s face hardened briefly and Wortel saw the TV persona disappear momentarily. “Just one of my assistants has been a little too loose with the credit card spending. She’ll find herself sacked if she isn’t careful…still enough of that…,” the TV persona had returned, “…what can I do for you?”

  “I had hoped you may have remembered something which could shed any further light on the death threats that you and the other chefs have received.”

  Donatella shook her head. “I’m sorry but no. I’ve been busy with some personal matters and besides, since taking over from Leah Brown on Masterbaker after her sacking, I’ve been rushed off my feet.”

  “So you’ve still no idea about who it could be?”

  “Did I mention the veggies when we last spoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, well then no, I’m at a loss. I can understand someone not liking me because of my luscious looks and more than ample cleavage, but that doesn’t explain why my good camp friend Llewy has been targeted. As for Leah, she’s washed up now so unless some patronised student who needs to be told how to boil an egg has flipped, I can’t understand why anyone is wasting their time on her. And well Scottie Rodgers, he’s cute but he’s stupid.”

  “Well thank you for those insights Ms DiMaggio. Do be careful and if you think of anything you have my number and you can call me any time.”

  “Really now DI Wortel, any time?”

  “About the case Ms DiMaggio.”

  “Oh right the case, of course.”

  Wortel made his way to the front door biding Donatella farewell. As he reached the lift, she called out to him. “DI Wortel, you can call me any time about anything.”

  Wortel flushed, turned back to the lift and for all the tea in China, wished he’d taken the stairs.

  Having regained his composure, Wortel headed for the country residence of Leah Brown. Turning into her drive Wortel was confronted by the sight of four debt collectors loading her furniture into the back of a large white van. Leah Brown sat on the front doorstep drowning her sorrows with a bottle of mother’s ruin.

  “Ms Brown, is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Are you able to start shitting money?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re no help.”

  A box of football memorabilia was carried from the house causing Leah to put her hand to her mouth trying to hold in her audible gasp.

  “I loved that club. I was always on the pitch at half time urging the crowd to make some more noise. Those bastard directors banned me because they thought I had an alcohol problem.”

  “And do you have an alcohol problem Ms Brown?” asked Wortel, already knowing the answer.

  “Not at all,” replied Leah, swigging from the bottle once more. “I have a problem remaining sober.”

  Wortel decided to press on regardless. “How did you get into this position? You were a TV star u
ntil just a few months back.”

  “I am a TV star thank you very much. It’s just that I’m not on the box at the moment. That slut DiMaggio has stolen my slot.”

  “I understand that was a corporate decision Ms Brown and not something Ms DiMaggio would have been involved in.”

  “Yeah well she’s raking it in, and I’m pissed and penniless. So I’ve been sent a death threat, well, whatever! I hope they do bop off one of the other three. At least I might get back on the box.”

  Wortel stepped aside as one of the debt collectors left Leah’s house carrying her glassware collection. He walked back towards his car deciding that he wasn’t going to get anything further from the conversation. As he reached his car Leah decided to give Wortel one final piece of sound advice.

  “You see DI carrot. That’s why I’m drinking from the bottle. Don’t look down your nose at me. I just don’t have a glass to drink from any more. I barely have a pot to piss in.” Arriving at Goodeatery11, Scottie Rodgers’ trademark restaurant which was staffed purely by layabouts and the insane, Wortel was surprised by its popularity.

  “Good to see ya ’gain me old mucker,” cried Scottie Rodgers. “Look at all me punters. And you know what? They like their food FAST!”

  As he spoke the diners all cheered and raised their glasses. Scottie Rodgers steered Wortel to his office all the while absorbing the adulation which came his way.

  Rodgers closed the office door and smiled at Wortel. “So sorry about that dear chap, you know I have to give the people what they want, but it can be so draining.”

  “That’s fine sir. One question though, why can’t you just be yourself?”

  “Mwah ha ha. No one wants to hear some posh boy on screen talking about caviar or about cooking pheasant. It’s either about ‘the journey’ – look at where I have come from – or ‘sex sells’. Well I’m realistic enough to know that I can’t do the latter so it’s my journey that counts. So I developed this inner city persona and well, it’s made me an absolute mint.”