The third grape pulled off his bandana, run his hand across his head and smiled at Warren.
“You are an expert origamist. I also. Enguard.”
“With pleasure,” replied Warren. “Enguard.”
The Wortel family kitchen resembled a scene from a Jackie Chantilly Cream movie as Wortel, using his potato masher with vengeance, tackled his assailant while Warren and the third grape traded spectacular kicks and blows, each trying to fold the other using the deadly paper swan technique.
Hearing the commotion taking place in her kitchen Stella came downstairs and surveyed the scene. She picked up a chair from the kitchen table, walked across to where her husband was engaged masher in hand, and bought it crashing down on the grape’s head. He let out a little wine and slumped to the floor.
Stella took the potato masher from Wortel and threw it across the kitchen hitting the third grape on the temple. Like a boxer taking a hammer blow to the head, his legs wobbled before he fell forward into Warren’s arms.
Stella walked over to Warren placing an arm gently on his shoulder. “Thank you so much Warren. I really don’t know what we would have done without you tonight.” Warren blushed while Wortel smarted.
Stella looked at her husband and shook her head. “You best get that door fixed and I want the kitchen tidied up before the morning. I called the station before I came down, so your boys should be here soon. Get those grapes out of my house. Oh and Wortel, we need to buy some toilet paper as well as more of that cereal. Don’t forget to get some tomorrow before you come home from work?”
A barely awake Janie appeared at the kitchen door, her brain struggling to absorb the scene before her.
“Mum. What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry dear. Warren has it all under control and your Dad’s going to tidy up the kitchen. Come and sit down in here,” said Stella gesturing towards the living room. “I recorded the latest episode of Masterbaker. Come on, let’s go and watch Donatella DiMaggio.”
Day 8
21
Anonymous letters and crank calls
A sleep deprived Wortel arrived in the office still smarting from Stella thanking Warren for his bravery while ignoring what he considered to be his equally heroic actions with a potato masher. The grape assassins had been taken away for overnight questioning, leaving Wortel to tidy the kitchen and restore order to his home. And the fact that Warren had insisted on staying up and helping Wortel had not improved his mood.
Sipping his coffee, Wortel looked at the paperwork on his desk and willed himself to concentrate. Turning his attention to his computer screen Wortel opened his inbox and spotted an email from the KGB.
“Dotty. The KGB have found something of interest. I’ll drop them a note and say we’ll be along later.”
“Hmm, yeah, okay,” replied Dorothy who was busy studying one of the letters that had arrived in the post.
The telephone started to ring and was answered by Lemons. His face was a picture of concentration which then started to harden. Clearly receiving a message of some importance, Lemons decided to signal to Wortel that he needed his attention, and so, slipping the telephone between his shoulder and neck, he began a form of arm waving which could have been mistaken for a bookmaker at Epsom calling the odds.
Wortel looked at Lemons and acknowledged the arm waving. It stopped, which Wortel took as a sign that either Lemons understood he had his attention, or Wortel had just placed a bet for the 10-1 steeplechase setting off at midday.
“Boss,” cried Lemons placing the receiver back in its cradle. “We’ve had a crank call about the chefs.”
“What did they say?” said Wortel pensively.
“They said that they’d seen DiMaggio on TV provocatively dipping a strawberry in chocolate before licking it clean. They said they’d warned the chefs against such acts.” He looked at his pad. “And something about it being time to clean up the kitchen.”
“Male or female?”
“Hard to say, it was muffled. I was trying to concentrate but I couldn’t get it out of my mind that we owe someone five farthings.” He cast a look across at Oranges who shook his head in desperation.
“We’ve been over this so many times. We don’t owe anyone anything.”
“But the belles of St Martin…”
“Stop it,” Wortel shouted. “I can’t go through this again. Back to the call. Was there anything else?”
“No boss, they hung up before I had a chance to speak.”
“Okay, best send warning messages to all the chefs involved. Make DiMaggio the first call.”
Wortel turned away from Oranges and Lemons as Chief Superintendent Archibald walked into the office. “Morning Wortel. Seems you had a busy night.”
“You could say that sir.”
“Well I’ve some good news. We pressed the grapes last night and they spilled. They’ve implicated MadCow McBeef. They claim he hired them to kill you, so that you wouldn’t present evidence at his parole board. He’s denying it, which is no surprise, but the suspicion has been enough to get his application for parole thrown out. You can rest easy. He’ll be kept in incarceration for a little while longer.”
“Well that’s one less thing to have to worry about I suppose,” said Wortel.
Archibald nodded his agreement and strode from the office whistling merrily and flicking his false leg gracefully as Wortel thanked his lucky stars that MadCow McBeef remained off the streets.
“Boss.” The concern in Dorothy’s voice alarmed Wortel. “You need to see this.”
Wortel walked across to where Dorothy sat reading a letter which had been delivered to the office.
“What is it?”
“It’s an anonymous letter.”
“Dear DI Wortel
“Professor Partridge told me he was sorry for the egg beating murders. He also said Charles von Blimff is in danger.”
Dorothy rubbed her fingers together. “There’s a residue on that letter isn’t there boss?”
Wortel had also noticed. “Yes. Oranges, Lemons listen up. Dorothy and I need to go and meet the KGB. Make sure you get this letter to down to Dr Richards and see if she can identify this residue.”
“Yes boss,” they chimed together.
“Busy old morning,” noted Dorothy as Wortel’s mobile phone bleeped an incoming text message. He swiped his finger across the phone, entered his pass code and opened the text message.
‘Usted no respondió. ¿Por qué? Ellos me van a matar.’
Wortel looked at the text and didn’t understand a word of what was written. It was going to be a long day. He had a feeling in his bones.
22
The KGB return
“Custard Cream?” offered Ketchup wafting a plate of biscuits towards Dorothy and Wortel who were making themselves comfortable on the large leather sofa which dominated the rather unconventional meeting room cum lounge.
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Dorothy reaching forward taking two biscuits, and, with what always seemed to Wortel a fluid movement, rested the first on her knee while the second found itself unceremoniously dunked into her hot steaming drink.
“Not for me,” declined Wortel as the biscuits were again offered in his direction.
“Not watching your weight are you?” asked Béarnaise as he plunged the coffee press once more.
“No chance,” laughed Wortel.
“Good. Donatella would be most disappointed if you were to lose that figure of yours. Most impressed with his derriere wasn’t she?” he said to Ketchup.
“She was, but now, now, mustn’t give away too many of our client’s secrets,” he replied, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Dorothy latched onto Wortel’s obvious discomfort. “But you do love to be a little indiscreet don’t you?” she said with a smirk.
“Well, seeing as it’s you Dorothy,” said Béarnaise leaning forward. “Donatella DiMaggio has a little, well, how to say this carefully, problem with her lines.”
&n
bsp; “Really. She always comes across as being someone who just needs one take. I had no idea she even needed an autocue.”
Béarnaise and Ketchup smiled at each other and both started to brush under their noses with the back of their hands.
“No way,” cried Dorothy “Really?”
“Absolutely,” declared Ketchup, who was himself getting into the full swing of being completely indiscreet. “She pays us to make sure her assistants are not spending too much on her credit cards. Hasn’t been quite going to plan lately, but she’ll pull through.”
“Well, if she needs pulling through you can bet your bottom dollar Scottie Rodgers will help her,” commented Béarnaise who sat back in his reclining chair, swinging his left leg over his right, while throwing back his head to take a large gulp from his cup.
“Go on,” Dorothy encouraged.
“Well, between me, you and the gatepost, he’s mad for her. But they’ll never make a couple. He’s too busy trying to find someone to save, and more often than not it turns out to be a group of fat children who enjoy eating turkey twizzypops13. The best thing the kids could do is to turn around and run a mile.”
“They’d never be able to run 100 yards let alone a mile,” said a fierce catty voice. “But enough of that, the great and the good from the Food Related Crime team are not here for our idle gossip.”
Everyone looked up at Miles Gravy who had appeared unnoticed from his study at the far end of lounge. Dressed in a sharp grey pinstriped suit and carrying a black briefcase, the eldest of the KGB swaggered up to Wortel, who raised himself from the comfortable leather sofa and shook Gravy’s hand.
“This is a most interesting case Wortel,” he said flicking open the briefcase.
“Well let’s get down to business then. What did you find out?” asked Wortel.
“Have you made the deposit?”
“As always Miles. As always. And before you ask, no, the notes are not traceable.”
“I’ve always liked doing business with the police force,” smiled Gravy. “So understanding of how transactions should be completed.”
“Shall we go on?” ventured Wortel.
“Of course. Well, my dear Ketchup here is an IT wizard you know,” he said causing Ketchup to turn even redder than normal, which surprised both Dorothy and Wortel.
“And he thought he might see if he could investigate the server of AstraArms and specifically the email account of your fallen egg. Really most enlightening.”
Gravy took out a piece of paper and passed it to Wortel. He read the note, raised his eyebrows and showed it to Dorothy.
“Well,” she said, “at least we know why they were murdered. A good old fashioned blackmail attempt. Benedict Blacktail must have sent this email and then deleted it from his account thinking it couldn’t be traced.”
“Or so it would seem,” said Gravy, causing Wortel to look up quickly.
“There’s more?”
“We’ve not been able to figure out to whom the email was sent as the firewalls keep blocking us, but the email demands that the sum of money be transferred into an unnamed account. Well that’s where it gets really interesting.”
“In what way?” asked Dorothy.
“We hacked into the banking clearing system to look at the account. And we found it doesn’t belong to Benedict Blacktail.”
“Who then?” said Wortel looking quizzically.
Gravy sat back in his chair, smiling at the Food Related Crime team hanging on his every word. As he picked at an imaginary piece of fluff on his jacket sleeve he raised his eyes and locked them directly with Wortel’s.
“Travis Dwyer.”
Wortel and Dorothy took the lift to the AstraArms laboratories descending in near silence, although it was clear to anyone who saw their faces that they were perfectly in tune with each other.
Stepping into the familiar reception Wortel recalled the look on the face of the muscle sprout clutching his neck as he juiced out. The smell of strong disinfectant was the only clue that something had happened just a few days earlier. Just a few days. To Wortel, it felt like weeks had passed.
“He was sat behind that very desk,” said Wortel out of the side of his mouth, his eyes looking towards the desk which was now guarded by a courgette wearing the familiar AstraArms uniform.
“Bet he looked more imposing than him,” whispered Dorothy.
“Stop it.”
“Oh come on, be fair. What would you be more afraid of, a muscle sprout or this courgette fellow?”
“I’m nearly always fearful of a courgette – even the unarmed ones. It’s just that I’ve no idea whether I should be boiling it, baking it or frying it.”
“Try binning it,” muttered Dorothy causing Wortel to break into muffled laughter as the courgette eyed them up suspiciously from behind his desk.
“I’m DI Wortel and this is Sergeant Knox,” said Wortel his voice still threatening to crack into laughter. “We’re here to see Mr Travis Dwyer. Could you let him know we’ve arrived please, Cyril is it?” asked Wortel pointing towards the name badge that sat pinned to the AstraArms security uniform just above the double A emblem.
“Yes and no,” replied the courgette.
Dorothy and Wortel looked at each other and then back to the courgette who sighed at having to explain something which was so clearly obvious to everyone except the two police officers standing in front of him.
“Yes, I will let Mr Dwyer know you’re here. But no, my name is not Cyril.”
“Oh,” replied Wortel “only your name badge says…,”
“I know what the name badge says,” snapped back non-Cyril Courgette. “But they didn’t have a badge long enough for Cornelius Junior III, so personnel in their infinite wisdom decided I should be called Cyril.”
Non-Cyril lifted the telephone receiver and called Travis Dwyer to reception while Dorothy and Wortel faked an in-depth conversation with each other to avoid any further small talk with the courgette. Within a few minutes Travis Dwyer appeared at the entrance to the laboratories.
“Hello. I’m DI Wortel and this is Sergeant Knox,” said Wortel offering his hand. “Good of you to meet us.”
“That’s okay but I didn’t know you were coming,” said Travis, his voice showing signs of stress at the surprise arrival of the Food Related Crime team.
“That’s because we never called ahead. Listen, we don’t want to keep you too long, it’s just that I would like to take a look at Benedict Blacktail’s office to see if there was anything we might have missed. You know fresh pair of eyes and all that.”
“Sure, right this way,” said Dwyer not moving an inch. “Have you found out who killed them?”
“Not yet but we are exploring all leads,” said Dorothy taking a step forward causing Dwyer to recognise that now was the time to move.
The trio walked silently through the busy laboratory, the scientists not looking up from their work benches at the two police officers and an increasingly sweaty Travis Dwyer. Travis unlocked the office door to Benedict’s office and stood aside allowing Wortel and Dorothy to enter.
They were met with a stale sulphurous smell, which showed the room had not had fresh air for a good few days. Wortel flicked on a light which immediately struck the eggcup that was positioned next to three hay bundles. As Wortel walked around the desk to get a better look at the eggcup, Dorothy picked up a picture of Benedict and Darcy, a couple so clearly in love, beaming at each other on their wedding day.
“Is that you as best man?”
“Yes. Rained all day except for when the pictures were being taken.”
“Ah. That’ll explain the wellies then.”
“Yes. With Darcy wearing a cardboard dress she couldn’t afford for it to get wet otherwise it would have soaked up water like a sponge.” Travis broke into a wistful smile as he recalled the story.
“You don’t want a wet bride that’s for sure,” said Dorothy building a connection with Travis who started to relax for the first
time since he had met the police officers.
Wortel thumbed through some paperwork on Benedict’s desk not looking for anything in particular but killing time as Dorothy went to work lulling Travis into a false sense of security.
“I bet you were nervous having to give a best man’s speech?”
“Not too bad all things considered. I had to calm Benny down. He was so runny.” Travis laughed a hollow laugh as his mind drifted back to that day. He took the photograph from Dorothy and ran his hand down the side of the dark wooden frame.
“Are you married Mr Dwyer?” asked Wortel, not looking up as he continued to thumb through the personal belongings on Benedict’s desk.
“I was a few years ago. Divorced now. A costly affair I can tell you. Don’t get married without working out if you can afford the divorce. That’s my advice.” Travis again let out a chuckle although this was not returned by either officer.
“I’ve heard divorce can be costly,” said Wortel. “Mind you, not as costly as being the reason why your friends get murdered, bludgeoned, crushed to death on their doorstep, most probably in complete fear and with no idea why.”
The colour in Travis Dwyer’s face drained faster than a glass of scotch in Leah Brown’s hand as she watched her favourite countryside football team concede another goal.
“Come on Mr Dwyer. Let’s not be shy about things. We know all about the email demanding money. We know you’ve used Benedict’s email to send the demand, and then you’ve deleted all evidence from his account. Tell me, was it worth it? How does it feel to have his yolk on your hands?”
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