Lemons felt the eyes of Superintendent Archibald bore into the side of his skull, while Oranges stopped swirling and tottered from side to side as he headed back to his seat. Wortel, smiled inwardly, felt himself warm towards his new recruit for the first time. “But, for the purpose of playing along,” said Lemons, “I think we are dealing with someone a bit unhinged who wants to cause others harm.”
“I’ve already said that,” snapped Rhubarb, still smarting from Lemons’ earlier comment. “What else do you think or can members of the citrus clan only repeat the words of others?”
A still groggy Oranges jumped in to defend his acidic partner. “I’ll have you know that the citrus clan has some of the most highly intelligent food sapiens on record,” he retorted, eyes tightly closed in a vain attempt to stop his world from spinning.
“Must be the grapefruits,” muttered Rhubarb causing Dorothy to withhold a chortle.
Desperate to prove their intelligence to the rotund Rhubarb, Oranges and Lemons started to whisper to each other, each whisper growing louder before they were on the verge of coming to blows.
“You can’t say that Lemons don’t be so daft.”
“It’s a perfectly good suggestion; you’re just peeved because you’ve not thought of anything worthwhile to say.”
“That’s not true,” cried Oranges trying hard to think of something worthwhile to say.
“I’ve something to add Mr Rhubarb,” cried Lemons as Oranges put his head into his hands.
“Yes, well let’s hear it then.”
“I think the person who sent the death threat doesn’t like chefs. If we were closer to Christmas I’d suggest it was a turkey.”
An awkward silence filled the room. Lemons reddened, Oranges rubbed his temple, Rhubarb started to examine his shoes, Archibald polished his glasses while Dorothy and Wortel exchanged an embarrassed look.
“Excuse me,” piped up Wortel trying to end the hideous silence they were all sharing, “but how is this psychometric modelling? It seems like guesswork and so far you’ve not told us anything we didn’t already know.”
“Ah, a sceptic in the ranks. It’s all part of the plan you see. Hearing the note read in different styles really helps me get into the persona of the individual.”
Wortel sighed. “Then would you like me read the threat in an accent, while hopping on one leg and maybe this time reading the note aloud but with a lisp?”
“The lisp is unnecessary…an interesting angle though… are you trained in the psychometric arts?”
“Funnily enough, no.”
“That surprises me; you have a certain, well, quality.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I can see why you are so good at your job. You get straight into the criminal mind.”
“Because I asked whether I should speak in a lisp?”
“You moved into the mind of a villain. Most villains have lisps.”
“In all my years within this role that’s not something I’ve ever noticed.”
“Oh yes it’s true, haven’t you seen the old films?”
“I prefer to get my experience in the field rather than from films.”
“Just what I expected you to say. Yes, it is all starting to fit together.”
Wortel shrugged and read out the note, hopping from foot to foot while speaking in his best German tongue, throwing in the odd lisp every now and again for good measure where he could. While Wortel was reading Rhoger Rhubarb turned to the whiteboard, grabbed a pen and started to scribble.
“By jove, I’ve done it,” he cried, slapping his thigh, pantomime style. “With your help I’ve profiled the person you need to find.”
“Go on then, wow us,” said a somewhat sarcastic Dorothy.
“The person who sent this note is highly intelligent, someone who is prepared to break the rules, a man certainly. I suggest you look for someone in a position of power. A youngish man, in fact, they could be a food sapiens. Yes, a food sapiens. I suggest you look for a food sapiens who doesn’t like chefs. A veggie. Has that been suggested before?”
Wortel raised his eyes.
“By one or two people yes…,”
12 Sponsored by Money for Old Rope Consultancy Limited
19
Enter the KGB
With Rhoger Rhubarb now safely off the premises and with Chief Superintendent Archibald deciding it was best to consign the experiment to history, Wortel and the team set about reviewing the statements Oranges and Lemons had taken at AstraArms and Beaconborne Avenue.
“Have you had any flashes of inspiration Dotty?”
“Not a sausage. You?”
“No. Oranges, Lemons have you had any flashes of inspiration? No wait, daft question don’t answer that.”
Oranges and Lemons looked puzzled at each other and wondered why Wortel had just answered his own question. Wortel rubbed his eyes and stared at the masses of statements spread across the desk in front of him, the words on the pages blurring into what seemed one continuous line of text.
“Dorothy, I was thinking we might need some outside help. What do you think?”
“The thought had crossed my mind too. We need a break from somewhere.”
“The KGB it is then.”
“Yep.”
Lemons looked on in astonishment. “So we’re going to get the Russian secret service involved?”
“Not quite,” said Dorothy smiling, “these guys are so much better and not quite as secretive.”
“Who are they?” asked Oranges having taken a sudden interest in the conversation.
Wortel opened his desk drawer and removed a brown leather folder. Unzipping the folder he walked across to where Oranges and Lemons sat and dropped a picture of three men onto their desk.
“Meet Ketchup, Gravy and Béarnaise. Better known as the KGB.”
Wortel and Dorothy approached the offices of the KGB, which in reality was a converted five bedroom town house. From the outside the townhouse appeared exactly that; from the inside, the secrets of the city were discovered and protected, or if insufficient funds paid, exposed to the national press.
Wortel and the KGB had built up a long and rewarding working relationship which dated back to when they acted as security at Wembley Arena for the world famous singer Tina Turnip. The thwarting of a kidnap attempt by the combined forces of the Food Related Crime team and the KGB led to the three men realising they could branch out and earn a better living assisting the police force. Their expertise soon grew and although they used some data collection techniques which were outside the remit of the law, the police force chose to turn a blind eye to the practices for so long as the KGB continued to be fantastic sauces of information.
The front door swung open and Béarnaise stood imposingly in the doorway. With a huge toothy grin he threw his arms wide open, stepped forward and embraced Wortel and Dorothy in a bear hug.
“My darling Wortel. And the delicious Dorothy, look at you. Have you had work done because if not, that is one tight fitting top – wowzah!”
Wortel raised an eyebrow knowing that any man who had passed such a comment to Dorothy would under normal circumstances be placing themselves in mortal danger. And yet instead of receiving a violent reaction she giggled like a schoolgirl, her hand reaching out and playfully punching him on the arm.
“Oh you do jest,” she said.
Wortel and Dorothy were led through to the kitchen where they sat down at a solid wood table. Béarnaise placed china teacups in front of them both, his giant hands threatening to crush the delicate cups into a powdery grave. He asked if they minded him being mother, and on receiving their consent, he poured a dash of milk into each cup, stirred the tea and filled the china cups to the brim, pouring the tea through an ornamental strainer from an equally antique teapot. He placed the teapot on the table, found out a knitted tea cosy and fitted it carefully over the pot. Once he was satisfied the cosy was fitted correctly he pulled out a chair and sat next to Dorothy inching the chair close
r to her at every opportunity.
“DI Wortel. What can I do to make this woman fall head over heels in love with me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one.”
“Shame. Dorothy, is there ever a chance for us?”
“I doubt it, but do keep trying,” she said, a rosy colour brightening the cheeks of her face.
“These words are like a dagger to my heart. I’m wounded, dying even. What about the kiss of life?”
“Best call the undertaker.”
Béarnaise grinned at Dorothy, picked up his teacup and slurped. “Now look. I’m sorry we’re stuck in here but Gravy and Ketchup are dealing with one of our more delicate clients.”
“You can tell us. We’re good with secrets,” said Dorothy leaning forward knowing that Béarnaise loved a good gossip.
“I shouldn’t really but seeing as it’s you two,” he said dropping his voice. “Llewellyn Morris and his partner Juanday Illflyaway are inside. Apparently he’s concerned that some newspapers think his participation at the Olympic Games is fake. They can only find him there as a spectator not as a competitor. Well, he’s got this huge claim to fame and nothing really to back it up.”
“At what Olympics was he a competitor?” asked Dorothy “Seoul? Barcelona? Beijing?”
“Andorra.”
“Oh.”
“Quite.”
Wortel sipped his tea, placed the cup carefully back into the china saucer and looked at the pair of gossips. “Any chance we could get down to business?”
“Oh, okay fussy pot,” said Béarnaise. “What can we do for you?”
Wortel and Dorothy spent the next hour explaining the circumstances that bought them to the KGB. Béarnaise listened intently making just the odd note.
“So let me be clear,” he said once Wortel had finished. “Darcy and Benedict Blacktail are murdered on their doorstep. Nobody in the neighbourhood hears or sees anything untoward and nobody can think of a reason why they are killed. You’ve searched his place of work and there are no obvious links or issues there as far as you can see. Tell me, did you check his work emails and telephone calls?”
“Yes. We sent our IT expert PC Hacker to AstraArms to review his emails and calls and he didn’t find anything of any note.”
“Look I don’t mean to be rude but did he just check the actual computer or did he look into their systems?”
“You know full well what we can check with the limited scope of our warrants. Anything more than that requires a judge to sign off on a search certificate and we’ve no evidence that would suggest we could get one.”
“Which is why you’re here.”
Wortel tilted his head as if to acknowledge the point. “We need a break. We’ve less to go on than someone with the trots who is lacking a toilet.”
“What a lovely image,” said Béarnaise, feeling his tea rising up in his throat. “Fine, we can delve into this in some more detail. Give us 24 hours.”
20
Sour grapes
Wortel eventually prised Dorothy out the KGB offices after hearing more gossip about a tax evasion scam that included many famous celebrities including Gary Barley and Jimmy Carp. Wortel navigated the evening traffic, dropped Dorothy home, wished her a good evening and set off for home himself comforted by the thought of slumping onto his sofa and watching something completely pointless on the television.
The all too familiar sight of a rickshaw parked outside the house caused Wortel to sigh outwardly. Warren. Bang goes a quiet night. He braced himself and opened the front door. And was hit by an overwhelming smell of paint.
“Stella, I’m home. Why can I smell paint?”
“Hello Mr Wortel,” called out Warren. “Mind how you go, the walls in the living room might be a little sticky. I wouldn’t want you to get paint on your suit.”
Stella poked her head out from the kitchen. “I’ll pop the kettle on. I hope you picked up some more of that breakfast cereal.”
“What for?” replied Wortel feeling a little confused. “We’ve got four boxes in the cupboard.”
“Down to one box. It’s hard to stop once you’ve had a bowl and Warren certainly worked up an appetite today. He’s worked really hard.”
“Well I’ll have to get some tomorrow now. So, why has Warren been painting?”
“Oh bless Warren. I mentioned how I wanted to get some decorating done but you’re always so busy. So he ran me to the superstore, helped me pick up some paint and he set to and painted the room for us.”
With Wortel feeling his shoulders begin to tense he walked into the living room to find the walls decorated a delightful shade of lettuce green.
“Warren thought it was a lovely colour,” said Stella following Wortel into the living room.
Wortel naturally hated the colour out of spite for Warren, and yet as much as he begrudged admitting it, he’d made a bloody good job with the decoration.
As night time approached and Stella insisted that Warren must be far too tired to cycle home, Wortel found himself in the loft recovering the inflatable bed. After blowing up the bed, and putting it into Jack’s room for their new guest, Wortel fled to the bathroom before he heard once again how wonderful Warren had been during the day. God, he hated that rabbit.
Wortel finished brushing his teeth, rinsed his mouth and spat the residue into the sink. The reflection in the mirror surprised him. He looked tired, more tired than he felt, but the lines around his orange eyes were prominent. He was always more anxious than normal when a case was on-going but there was more this time. He didn’t have a lead on the deaths of Darcy and Benedict Blacktail or Professor Partridge. He didn’t like Alexander Pine but there was something about him which meant Wortel didn’t believe he was capable of murder. Victoria Plum had gone walkabouts and Dorothy couldn’t track her down. There were the death threats to the four celebrity chefs, who were all bonkers in their own unique way, and to top it all, Warren was sleeping in the spare room and nobody seemed to care that he was a rabbit fraternising with a family of carrots. Oh, and not forgetting that the criminal mastermind MadCow McBeef was applying for parole. Other than that, life was grand.
He flicked off the lights, wished everyone goodnight, gritted his teeth at the jolly response from Warren and slipped into bed. It was a fitful sleep, with Wortel’s mind drifting between the various cases and a disturbing dream involving being chased by MadCow McBeef and Warren.
A cracking noise caused him to sit upright, sweat prickling on his forehead. Was that glass? He listened. Nothing. Damn these dreams. He laid his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Footsteps. Yes, definitely footsteps on the stairs. He recognised the creak on the bottom step. Wortel slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Stella who was dead to the world. He padded to the door, opened it and looked out onto the dark landing.
“Was that you on the stairs?” It was Warren coming out of the room next door.
“No, was it you making that noise?” Wortel whispered, eyes trying to focus on the stairs at the far end of the landing.
“No. I thought I heard glass smashing earlier. I’m guessing that wasn’t you?”
“Spot on.”
Wortel’s hand ran up the wall finding the light switch. He looked at Warren who nodded. Wortel stepped onto the landing, pulled the door behind him and flicked the switch pouring light into the landing. There at the far end of the landing, braced and ready for action, was a large bunch of grapes dressed in khaki, bandanas tied tight with knives drawn.
Wortel looked across at Warren who had taken up a defensive stance.
“Make sure the family are safe. I’ll handle this.”
“Warren, don’t do anything stupid. I’m a policeman. I’ve been in worse situations.”
“It’s fine. I’m a black belt in origami. I’ve got this sussed.”
Warren walked forward, turned his body slightly to the side, raised his front paw and took up position. The grapes bowed to Warren a
nd muttered something in a language that Wortel did not understand. Warren bowed in return which was the signal for mayhem to commence. The grapes charged at Warren who rocked backwards and sent the first troop of grapes scattering with three sharp strikes from his hind legs. He pushed his weight forward and bared his front teeth biting sharply at the second troop of onrushing grapes. Wortel watched in amazement as the grapes regrouped and came again before being dispatched by the dynamic kung-fu rabbit.
The grape leader shouted something which Wortel did not understand but which suddenly saw the grapes turn and beat a retreat. “Come on, we need to get at least one of them,” shouted Warren who started chasing after the grapes. Wortel hurried along the landing and started to take the stairs two at a time in order to keep up.
Hearing a crash from the kitchen, Wortel rushed in to find Warren on the floor wrestling with three grapes. Warren kicked hard and sent one of the grapes flying across the room crashing into the kitchen table knocking him unconscious. He paused briefly to admire his work allowing the second of the three grapes to land a firm blow to his chin.
Warren staggered backwards and fell to the floor dazed. Wortel looked on in horror as the moonlight shining in through the open back door glistened on the blade being brandished by the grape attackers. Wortel pulled open the nearest drawer and found two spatulas, a potato masher and a number of other kitchen utensils. Grabbing the potato masher he threw himself forward as the second grape plunged the knife towards the prone Warren.
Warren saw the blade heading his way, and as he waited to feel the incision, an orange blur appeared in front of him. Hearing the sound of metal on metal Warren realised Wortel had blocked the knife using the potato masher and was now engaged in arm to arm combat, knife versus masher. The third of the grapes, shocked at seeing a carrot dive into such a dangerous position armed with just a potato masher to save a rabbit, drew his knife and went into battle. Warren regained his senses and leapt to his feet and positioned himself between the third grape and the duelling Wortel.
Addicted to Death Page 15