Travis Dwyer buckled under the weight of the words he was hearing and grabbed at the nearest filing cabinet to steady himself. Neither Wortel nor Dorothy moved, their eyes firmly fixed on him as he placed his hands on his knees and bent double breathing heavily.
Dwyer eventually stood up to speak, his voice weak and distant.
“You must believe me when I say that I never thought they would be killed. I have these gambling debts and I was hoping to get some money, clear the debts and start a new life.”
“How did you get access to his email?” asked Dorothy.
“His tablet computer. I’d borrowed it from him a few days earlier and I hacked into his email account. I sent the email and deleted it immediately. He never knew anything about it.”
“Until his shell was caved in,” spat out Wortel, his contempt for Travis on show even more than ever.
Dwyer again started to breathe heavily.
“What made you think you would get paid? What is that you know?” asked Dorothy, shooting Wortel a look that told him to hold his tongue.
“That’s the worst thing,” said Dwyer softly. “I didn’t know anything for certain. I was speculating. That’s the gambler in me. You see it’s this project Benedict and I were asked to lead on. We’ve been tasked with developing these new food brands and we had to use some new colourings from overseas. Well, we thought it was a dead end project as the flavours sound disgusting, but the sales figures have gone through the roof. In all my years here, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That doesn’t explain the blackmail attempt,” quizzed Wortel.
“If it seems too good to be true it probably is, that’s what they say isn’t it? The profits were huge so I thought something dodgy might be going on, you know, money laundering, something like that. So I sent the email demanding some money in order to keep quiet or I’d expose their secret. The thing was, I didn’t even know if there was a secret being kept, I still don’t, but you must admit the fact that Benny and Darcy were murdered means that I must be right about the money laundering.”
“Who did you send the email to?” probed Dorothy picking up the reins as Wortel went into a deep think.
“The project lead, the top dog.”
“Charles von Blimff?”
“Oh no. He hasn’t a foggiest what goes on here. You see, AstraArms receives government grants for specific projects and when that happens we have to report to a project lead. von Blimff isn’t allowed to know what’s going on.”
“Really? This is his company,” said Dorothy incredulously.
“Truthfully. I’ve a copy of the contract for this project in my office. The terms and conditions clearly say that von Blimff is not part of the reporting line.”
“So who is the project lead then Mr Dwyer?”
Travis Dwyer dropped his eyes and looked down at his shoes.
“Who was my project lead you mean? Because it was a government grant we report directly to the minister. Only, you see, Professor Partridge has got himself killed hasn’t he.”
Wortel briefed Chief Superintendent Archibald, Oranges and Lemons when he and Dorothy arrived back at the station. In return Wortel discovered that Victoria Plum hadn’t shown for her now overdue conversation at the station. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Travis Dwyer had been booked into an interview room and Dorothy was busy extracting every last detail from him about his movements leading up to, and after, the deaths of the Blacktails and Professor Partridge.
“It’s a right old pickle,” said Archibald strumming his fingers on the desk at which he sat. “Tell me, where do we go from here?”
Wortel went to answer when PC World burst through the office door looking decidedly worse for it. Wortel, looked at the splintered wood on the floor, the hinges now swinging lonely where the door once stood, and then at PC World who was rubbing his shoulder.
“Sir, there’s a problem at Goodeatery. They’ve found a bomb.”
“Never mind that PC World, what about our door?” said a somewhat disgruntled Wortel.
“Ah, sorry sir, I thought this way was quicker.”
“Than turning the door knob?”
“Yes, I hear your point and I’ve noted your concerns for future reference.”
“That’s no good to us now though is it World?”
“I’ll arrange for carpentry to come down and replace it soonest.”
“Soonest?” Wortel turned and looked incredulously towards Oranges and Lemons.
“Who says soonest?”
“Probably someone who just told you there was a bomb at Goodeatery, which you seem to have overlooked,” said Archibald surprisingly acting as a voice of common sense.
“Ah, yes. Very good sir,” said Wortel grabbing his jacket while barking an order at PC World to get the door mended quicker than soonest. He headed through the empty door and off to Goodeatery, with Oranges and Lemons shouting after him to say they had warned the chefs to be vigilant and they couldn’t be blamed if one was to die.
13 Sponsored by the Cheap Crap Food Corporation
23
Death by chocolate
The scene was of utter chaos as diners, kitchen staff and passers-by ran in all directions trying to get away from Goodeatery. Wortel screeched his car to a halt and headed towards the mayhem, spotting Scottie Rodgers standing outside of his restaurant looking decided miffed.
“I say old chap what’s all this kerfuffle? I’m standing here watching all of my customers run off without paying. It’s no way to run a business.”
Realising he was receiving startled looks from those in the vicinity, Rodgers changed tack as Wortel got nearer. “What the ’ell’s going on guv’nor? Me punters are ordering their food – FAST – and I ’ear someone shout bomb. Gave me a right fright.”
Everyone took a collective sigh of relief on hearing Rodgers return to his inner city roots and put his temporary poshness down to the effects of shock.
“What happened here Mr Rodgers?” asked Wortel taking him out of earshot of the crowds. Rodgers looked around and saw that he was clear to return to his normal voice.
“I received a phone call advising that Donatella DiMaggio wanted to meet up urgently. Well, I wasn’t going to turn that offer down.” He paused, reflecting on the phone call. “I’ll be damned. It was a ploy wasn’t it? That way I would be here when the bomb goes off and I go kaboom.”
Wortel nodded, and decided to move the conversation on before Rodgers dwelt on this news.
“Someone in the restaurant found the bomb. Who was it?”
Rodgers beckoned forward a young woman, aged in her twenties.
“I understand from Mr Rodgers that you found the bomb?”
“That’s correct sir, I did.”
“Good. What’s your name?” asked Wortel trying to put her at ease.
“Sue Chef.”
“No your name, not your position.”
“Sue Chef.”
“Look, I know you work in the kitchen, but I want your name.”
“I told you, Sue Chef.”
“Oh really please, how hard is this question? We’ve a bomb to deal with.”
“Nah, listen mate, her name is Sue and her surname is Chef,” said Rodgers reverting to his TV voice.
Wortel looked at Rodgers and then at Sue Chef, the penny slowly dropping.
“Okay, glad we got that sorted. So, Sue Chef, tell me, what do you do here?”
“I’m the Sous Chef.”
“Oh good lord not again.” Wortel turned away, put his hand to his forehead and tried to rub the tension away. He took a breath, popped in a mint, and turned back to Sue Chef the Sous Chef.
“So Sue Chef the Sous Chef, where did you find the bomb?”
“Between the stations of the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.”
“Get out of ’ere. The bomb found by me old Sue Chef the Sous Chef is near the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.”
Wortel looked a little pained but said “Good job y
ou don’t make clothes or you could have a Suit Chef.”
No one laughed.
Wortel coughed an embarrassed cough and ploughed on. “Can you describe the device to me?”
“Oh yes, that’s easy.”
“Really? You’re used to explosives are you?”
“Not exactly. But the bomb is coated in a speciality of Mr Rodgers.”
“Do what?” spluttered Rodgers looking slightly alarmed.
“Yes, it’s one of your chocolate bomb cakes.”
“Oh good,” said Rodgers seemingly happy that the bomb inside the restaurant was at least made using one of his own recipes.
“So…,” said Wortel slowly, “…let me get this straight. You’ve found a chocolate covered bomb cake which is a recipe of Mr Rodgers?”
“The recipe yes, the countdown timer and the wires poking out of it, no, that’s not how it is normally made. Ours are so much more, well, edible.”
“You said it had a timer?”
“Yes.”
“And how long was on the timer?”
“Thirty minutes and counting down.”
“And when did you find it?”
Sue Chef looked at her watch. “About twenty minutes or so ago.”
“So we’ve probably less than five minutes before it explodes.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Then why ask it?”
“Beats me,” said Rodgers who had woken up to the fact that the restaurant was about to blow sky high. He took Wortel to one side away from Sue Chef the Sous Chef whose station was between the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.
“Old bean, my degree was in physics and engineering. I reckon I could snuff that bomb out in a jiffy.”
“I can’t let you go in there Mr Rodgers.”
“Now don’t be a spoilsport. Let me have a dabble.”
Wortel called out to a nearby WPC. “When are the bomb squad arriving?”
“Not for another ten minutes. They never realised it was a chocolate bomb so they’ve had to go back for the right equipment.”
Wortel pulled a puzzled face. “Surely a bomb is a bomb isn’t it?”
“Oh no old bean, a chocolate bomb is the most dangerous of all cake related bombs. You need a spatula, whipped cream and a steady hand. Lucky the first two are in the restaurant and I was born with the third. Come on, there’s no time to lose.”
“Hold on Mr Rodgers please,” said Wortel, a worried look coming across his face. “You said you had a call saying Donatella DiMaggio wanted to meet with you. Has anyone seen Ms DiMaggio?”
Scottie Rodgers shook his head. “Funnily enough no. I just thought she was being fashionably late.”
“Hmm. That’s strange,” said Wortel. “I don’t like that one bit.”
Scottie Rodgers turned and faced the crowd which had started to assemble, albeit from what they believed was a safe distance should the restaurant be blown sky high.
“Listen up you lot. ’as anyone seen that buxom wench Donatella DiMaggio?” he bellowed.
A number of shoulders started to shrug before a muffled scream caused all eyes to turn towards the restaurant. Through a store room window stood Donatella DiMaggio, her hands tied to a cabinet and a gag across her mouth.
A startled Wortel was pushed aside by Scottie Rodgers who bounded towards the restaurant at full speed. Wortel turned and started to run after the celebrity chef who was surprisingly fleet of foot. When Wortel caught up with Rodgers he was already at the site of the bomb, spatula in one hand, whipped cream being vigorously shaken in the other.
The timer read 2:15.
Rodgers spoke first without looking up.
“It’s more complex than I thought Wortel. This wiring is intertwined, one wrong swish of this spatula and we’re goners. Take the whipped cream and keep shaking it. I’m going to cut a wire and then you need to spray that cream on it quick. That’ll prevent the bomb from detonating accidently.”
Wortel looked unconvinced.
“Trust me.”
Wortel took the whipped cream and carried on shaking the can as Rodgers separated the wires using the spatula.
The timer read 1:45.
“Blast,” said Rodgers. “Oh sorry, wrong word at this time I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If I cut the blue wire, that’ll trip the green wire. And if I cut the green wire that’ll trip the red wire.”
“So cut the red wire first then.”
“My God, I know you’re a carrot but are you just plain raving bonkers? Cutting the red wire is suicide.”
“Then what?”
“We need to divert the red wire and make the bomb think it’s still connected before I cut it. Don’t you see?”
“Actually no, and you’re talking about the bomb as though it has a brain and can think for itself.”
Rodgers looked quite disappointedly at Wortel. “You really know nothing about bombs. Of course they can think for themselves once armed. That’s why we have to trick it.”
“Not the time for a lecture Mr Rodgers. What do you need?”
The timer read 60 seconds.
“Something thin and wire like. Any thoughts?”
Wortel scanned the kitchen, all the time shaking the whipped cream violently in one hand. He looked across left at the Suet Chef’s station and saw nothing. He turned to the right and scanned the Soup Chef’s station and saw something which looked like salvation.
“Will noodles do?”
“Jolly good show Wortel. Yes, noodles are great.”
Wortel lunged forward and grabbed the noodles, turning in one fluid movement and throwing them to Rodgers who had briefly put down the spatula.
The timer read 30 seconds.
Rodgers grabbed plain flour from the Suet Chef’s station, patted some onto his hands to dry his nervous sweaty palms, and went to work. Wortel moved to his side and looked on as the celebrity chef who held a degree in physics and engineering began to trick the bomb into thinking it still had a red wire, which was now nothing more than a noodle.
The timer read 15 seconds.
Rodgers put down the noodles and raised the spatula. “I have to say DI Wortel that it’s been a pleasure. Do you think we’ve enough time to take a selfie?”
“Not now Mr Rodgers.”
“Fair point. It’s now or never old bean.”
The timer read 7 seconds.
“Mr Rodgers.”
“Yes.”
“Cut that wire – FAST.”
The spatula came down and swiped through the wires, red followed by blue followed by green. As the wires were separated Wortel sprayed the whipped cream, covering the bomb in a coating of white froth.
The timer came to a stop with just two seconds remaining.
Wortel and Rodgers walked slowly out of Goodeatery, feeling both exhilarated but somewhat knackered at the same time. They smiled at each other as the buxom Donatella DiMaggio was released from the store room and led to safety.
“She’s a mighty fine filly,” admired Scottie Rodgers.
“She’s all yours.”
“Do you know she walks around starkers all day? I’d like to be a fly on her wall, nudge nudge wink wink.”
“Yes, I did find that out.”
“You old dog you. Never realised you had it in you, you dirty old carrot.”
“It was professional. I was conducting an interview,” Wortel responded rather too quickly.
“In the altogether were you?”
It was a surprising fact of nature that meant when carrots blushed they turned a deep shade of yellow and Wortel’s face answered Rodgers’ question without the need for words.
Donatella DiMaggio came over to Wortel and Rodgers. The ordeal looked as though it had sapped her of all energy and she appeared on the verge of collapse.
“I owe you both a heartfelt thank you.”
“Well, it was Mr Rodgers here who was the star.”
“Don’t put yourself down Wortel. That noodle idea was pretty darn impressive.”
“Well you are both my heroes and I want to thank you both in the best possible way. But seeing as you are married Detective Inspector Wortel I’ll give you and your family free tickets for as many episodes of Masterbaker as you want. And seeing as you’re not married Scottie, well, shall we?”
“One question ma’am before I leave Mr Rodgers to escort you home, do you have any idea who did this?”
“I didn’t see a face Detective Inspector because they bopped me on the back of the head with a French stick, but I do believe that it was Leah Brown.”
“Why do you think that ma’am?”
“Well two reasons. Firstly, there was a strong smell of alcohol and horse manure which is Leah’s trademark and secondly, as the French stick struck me on the head I distinctly remember hearing my attacker say ‘ooh ahh’.”
“Thank you ma’am. And Mr Rodgers.”
“Yes old bean.”
“Brace yourself.”
Wortel pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Oranges, Lemons. Get an arrest warrant out for Leah Brown. I’m off to find Llewellyn Morris. I’m worried for his safety.”
As Donatella and Scottie walked off arm in arm, she stopped, turned and called to Wortel. “Detective Inspector Wortel.”
“Ma’am?”
“I think she had an accomplice only I could have sworn I heard two sets of footsteps.”
24
The dangers of oscillating fans
Wortel arrived at the TV studios within the hour. Earnest Tidings, the station producer, was waiting for him having received a call in advance from Wortel.
“Detective Inspector Wortel, good of you to call. I’m Earnest Tidings.” The two shook hands.
“I fear you may be here on a fool’s errand. Nobody has seen Llewy today, his dressing room door is locked and he’s not answering his mobile.”
“Is that normal behaviour for Mr Morris?”
“Sometimes. Everyone thinks he’s this really macho guy but he’s a softie at heart and unfortunately prone to the odd strop. One of the costume designers suggested he shouldn’t wear stripes as it accentuated his, well, middle region, and Llewy stomped off set in a fit of rage. He wanted the designer sacked, but we talked him into allowing them to keep their job on the proviso they never speak to Llewy again. So when he never showed for work today we just thought he was still sulking.”
Addicted to Death Page 17