Addicted to Death

by Matthew Redford

  Wortel jotted a note in his book. “And was there anything out of order this morning when you arrived at the studios?”

  “Not particularly. Only that someone hadn’t set the alarm overnight. Oh, and we’ve a problem with the drains but that’s not really a police matter is it now.” Earnest laughed at his own comment.

  “What problem is this sir?”

  “It’s nothing really, we’ve called maintenance.”

  “Tell me the problem Mr Tidings.” The tone of Wortel’s voice told the station producer he needed to answer the question immediately.

  “Well it’s just that there was a strong smell of, well excuse the language, shit.”

  “What type of shit smell Mr Tidings?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Bull shit?”

  “No it’s true. The place stunk.”

  “No, was it a bull shit smell or a horse shit smell?”

  “Ah, I see. You should have been clearer. Yes could have been both. Horse if I had to hazard a guess.”

  Earnest Tidings saw the look of concern cross Wortel’s face.

  “I need to see Mr Morris’ dressing room urgently.”

  “Yes of course. This way.”

  Earnest Tidings hurried to get the master key while Wortel made his way to the dressing room. As he approached he noted a strange stain on the floor and a whirring noise which was coming from inside the dressing room. Wortel bent down and touched the stain with his hand. It was damp. He raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed.

  While it is common knowledge that carrots can help you see in the dark, mainly because they always remember to carry a torch, it is less well known that food sapiens, and in particular fruit and vegetable food sapiens, have an enhanced sense of smell. This was why you rarely saw fruits participating in sporting events because of the smell of the changing rooms. One of the exceptions to the rule being Stuart Broadbean, the famous cricket fast bowler, whose exploits were renowned the entire world over especially as he played with a peg on his nose.

  Wortel’s sense of concern was palpable, especially as he could identify a horsey-cum-alcohol based aroma. Earnest Tidings approached with the master key and passed it to Wortel.

  “Stay back Mr Tidings. I’m not sure what we may find inside.” Wortel unlocked the door and stepped cautiously inside. What he found was quite shocking although not the first time he had encountered such a scene.

  Hanging, and rotating, from the oscillating ceiling fan by his legs was Juanday Illflyaway, his hands bound and his mouth gagged. Juanday had a somewhat green complexion and a begging look in his eyes which told Wortel that he was in danger of becoming a revolving vomit machine if he wasn’t pulled down quickly.

  Wortel flicked the fan switch to off bringing Juanday to a stuttering stop. Wortel grabbed a chair and pulled it across the room, before climbing up onto it and quickly untying the legs of the suspended, stricken Juanday. As the final knot was untied Juanday plummeted to the floor with a thud causing Wortel to wish he’d put something soft on the floor to protect him from the fall. Earnest Tidings stepped forward, removing the gag from Juanday’s mouth and the rope from around his wrists.

  “Oh…my…word…thank…you…,” gasped Juanday. “I thought my days were numbered…,” he let out a high pitched squeal, “…and to think the world has never had a chance to see my rumba14.”

  Wortel thought how best to respond and decided to ignore the rumba reference.

  “Mr Illflyaway…”

  “Juanday please.”

  “Thank you. Juanday…”

  “Or Juany, whatever you prefer.”

  “I’ll stick to Juanday, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Can you tell me what happened here and in particular why you have just one eyebrow?”

  Wortel had only just noticed this and was now staring at the Brazilian dance sensation with a deep sense of confusion.

  “It’s all so simple really,” began Juanday.

  “That’s a relief,” muttered Earnest, who, having sat himself down at the dresser, put his head in his hands and wondered how on earth he was going to produce an episode of Can’t cook – yes you f*****g will without his leading man.

  Juanday ignored the station producer and continued.

  “Llewy had a call last night from the agent of Curly Kale Minogue who said that the little pop princess wanted to meet Llewy in person. Well, you can imagine how excited we were can’t you?”

  Wortel willed himself not to try.

  “Curly Kale’s agent said the little pop princess did not want to be seen by the paps, so Llewy suggested we meet here before anyone arrived. Llewy unlocked this morning and…,”

  “What!” exclaimed Earnest suddenly becoming very animated. “You mean to tell me that Llewellyn has his own keys to the studio?”

  “Of course darling. He often comes here after you’ve all gone home.”

  “Well bang goes the cheap insurance premiums now,” wailed Earnest, his head slumping and hitting the dresser firmly.

  “Thank you for the interlude Mr Tidings,” said Wortel turning back to Juanday. “If you wouldn’t mind continuing.”

  “As I was saying before being rudely interrupted…,” muttered Juanday shooting a killer look in the direction of Earnest, “…we arrived, unlocked and made our way here to the dressing room. We’d given Curly Kale’s agent directions and then we waited. There was a knock at the door around 6:30 this morning. I opened the door expecting to see the little pop princess and instead there was that old country hag Leah Brown. Well, before I had a chance to say ‘look at the state of you, that styling went out in the ’80s’, she threatened me with a swordfish. I never knew she could be so fierce. The most animated I’ve seen her is when she insists that you should fold a cake mixture in a way that paints a figure of eight.”

  Juanday started to demonstrate the best way to fold a cake mixture before he realised Wortel was not remotely interested.

  “Back to the real story Juanday if you would. What happened to Mr Morris?”

  Despite feeling snubbed at not being able to continue with his cake demonstration, Juanday pressed on. “Well, she makes poor Llewy tie me up otherwise she threatened to cut me with the swordfish. Llewy did that but he then suffered from one of his panic attacks – he gets them from time to time mainly when someone reminds him about the time his father racked up that large rent bill using Llewy’s name – anyway, she takes out some cling film from this hamper she had on her and wraps him up tight. She became quite annoyed because Llewy is carrying a little extra holiday weight and she almost ran out of cling film.”

  “From what Mr Morris told me when we last spoke, he suggested it wasn’t much of a holiday.”

  “Well it wasn’t really. Filthy rotten hole it was…”

  “Sorry Juanday, I’ve distracted you.”

  “So you did, and here you are trying to get me to hurry up with telling you what happened next.”

  “Then please do Juanday.”

  “Oh yes. Well, Leah was angry at him for carrying this extra weight and how this is going to delay her plans – he can’t help being big boned – and she insists that I tell her how much he weighs. Well I refuse but she insists because it is so important. I can’t see what difference it makes, and I wasn’t going to say.” Juanday’s voiced cracked and he held a hand up to his face.

  “And…,” pressed Wortel.

  “And that’s when she did it.”

  “Did what?”

  Juanday pointed to his missing eyebrow, noiselessly sobbing.

  “She…s..c..a..r..r..e..d…me…”

  “You mean she cut off your eyebrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh get a grip!” yelled Earnest from across the room, “it’ll grow back.”

  “Well that’s easy for you to say you sitting at the dresser with your two oversized bushy eyebrows and your big round moon face.”

  Earnest spun round in the seat and looked
in the mirror at the moon shaped head starring back at him. Wortel, who hadn’t noticed how bushy Earnest’s eyebrows were, smiled and returned to Juanday who seemed to have recovered from the silent sobbing.

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, Llewy had pulled himself together a little bit and seeing how distressed I am, tells that bitch that he weighs just over 17 stone.”

  “Crikey,” blurted out Wortel, “…those girdles must be at full stretch.”

  Ignoring the comment, Juanday pressed on. “Well, on finding this out, she pulled out a calculator, punched some numbers and scribbled something on this pad she is carrying. She then gags me and hoists me up here and switches the fan on. I could only see bits of what happened next because I was spinning around, but she somehow manages to pick Llewy up, throws him over her shoulder like a fireman, grabs the hamper and scarpers.”

  “She picked him up on her own?”

  “I thought so because I was spinning quite quickly at this stage. She is one strong old mare. Must be the booze that’s all I can say…unless she had some help from someone.”

  Wortel looked at his watch. It was early evening and over 12 hours since Llewellyn Morris had been kidnapped by Leah Brown, now known to be armed and dangerous with a swordfish and a French stick.

  Where had she taken him?

  14 Sight 4 Sore Eyes Opticians – sponsoring Juanday Illflyaway’s rumba

  25

  Carbon Footprint

  Wortel headed back to HQ to debrief the team and was immediately accosted by Oranges and Lemons who insisted he stress in his report that they could not be held responsible for the kidnapping of Llewellyn Morris.

  “Yes, yes, fine. Look enough already.”

  “But you know our history and we’ve been the scapefruits before.”

  “You mean scapegoats.”

  “Well okay,” said Lemons, “but scapefruits feels so much more personal.”

  Wortel sighed and called across to Dorothy. “I guess Leah Brown wasn’t at home by any chance was she?”

  “We sent PC Correctness but he got no response. I was expecting him back by now but apparently he was sidetracked because he suspected an incident was about to happen near to the shopping mall.”

  “What type of incident?”

  “He saw a dwarf, a three legged dog and a nun near the supermarket. He also spotted a group of teenagers close by in what PC Correctness described as a ‘huddle about to make inappropriate comments’, so he pulled over to speak with them.”

  “Poor beggars,” said Wortel thinking that if the teenagers had any gumption about them they’d have legged it as soon as they spotted PC Correctness coming their way. “Look get a call out to him, I need to know for certain that she wasn’t at home.”

  “I’m on it boss,” said Lemons who picked up the telephone and started punching numbers, which was a little unfair on the telephone as it had done nothing to deserve this unprovoked pummelling.

  Wortel, ignoring the assault on the telephone, slipped off his jacket and sat on the end of the desk. There was something at the back of his mind but he couldn’t place his finger on it. It was as though he had the pieces of the puzzle but hadn’t yet figured out how to form the picture.

  “Spit it out.” Wortel looked up at Dorothy who had stood from her desk and was walking towards him. “You’ve something ticking inside that mind of yours and you need to share it with us.”

  “I feel as though I’ve the pieces of the puzzle tucked away in my brain but I haven’t yet figured out how to form the picture,” said Wortel in a way that made it sound as though the words were pre-written for him.

  “I can help you with this,” said Oranges who came striding over to Wortel and Dorothy.

  “Really?” asked Wortel incredulously.

  “Honestly. I learned a mind clearing trick a few years ago. It works. I use it to clear my mind all the time.”

  “Now that doesn’t surprise me,” said Dorothy exchanging a look with Wortel.

  “Good. Then stand up, close your eyes and perch on one leg. I think in yoga exercises this means you are a tree.”

  “I bet that’s not poplar,” tried to joke Wortel who once again found his attempt at humour being met with near silence.

  “I need you to trust me,” said Oranges. “It’s all part of the mind clearing ritual, come on, stand up.”

  Wortel stood up, closed his eyes and stood on one leg in a manner that screamed scepticism. With his eyes closed he was sure he heard Dorothy chuckle.

  “Now boss, think of a happy place. Somewhere where you are peaceful and relaxed…,”

  “…and carefree and stress free…,” chirped in Lemons from across the office not wanting to feel left out.

  “Yes all right thank you I know what I’m doing,” snapped Oranges not welcoming the interruption.

  “Well you never mentioned carefree and stress free.”

  “You never gave me a chance.”

  “And you never mentioned what the bells of Shoreditch said did you?”

  “Enough children or do I need to introduce a naughty step?” snapped Wortel, still on one leg and with his eyes closed.

  “Sorry boss. So think of a happy place. Somewhere where you are peaceful, relaxed, carefree and stress free…,” – Lemons smiled at the revised version – “…and let your mind drift. I will ask you some questions and you must say what comes into your mind first. No thinking allowed.”

  “Okay,” said Wortel tentatively.

  “What’s your favourite colour?”

  “Blue.”

  “Who’s your favourite athlete?”

  “Martina Navarata-Pavlova.”

  “Which is better. Apples or pears?”

  “Pears.”

  “Oranges or Lemons?”

  “Neither.”

  “Eating in or eating out?”

  “Eating out.”

  “What’s troubling you?”

  “His weight.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The delivery van.”

  “There you go.”

  Silence came over the room as Wortel opened his eyes and placed his raised leg back on terra-firma. He smiled approvingly at Oranges who glowed with pride that his madcap idea didn’t seem so madcap now.

  Wortel started to pace the floor, stepping over the still detached door, and began talking out loud.

  “Leah Brown was insistent that she knew how much Llewellyn Morris weighed. Why? What’s so important about knowing his weight? And the van that nearly crashed into me. Where does Carbon Footprint Ltd fit into this?”

  Wortel stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. “Well, thoughts everyone?”

  Dorothy spoke first. “Did she need to know how heavy he was so she knew whether she could lift him?”

  “Hmm. Possible but Juanday said she was quite strong, so I’m not convinced.”

  “Boss.” Wortel looked across at Lemons who had just come off the telephone. “I’ve got PC Correctness on the line. He said that he tried the front door but got no response. He looked around the back but that was all locked up.”

  “Did he mention anything about the outhouses?”

  “I never thought to ask him about his toilet habits,” said Lemons looking puzzled as to where this line of questioning was headed.

  “No, no, the outhouses, any stables. Dear lord Dorothy where did we get them from?”

  Dorothy offered a shrug as Lemons regained his composure having discovered that PC Correctness was regular each morning.

  “He never mentioned the stables sir. Do you want me to send him back?”

  “Not yet. Tell him to wait and we will let him know. What else do we know?”

  Oranges looked up from his computer where he had been carrying out an Internet search. “Carbon Footprint Ltd specialise in charcoal related items. From pencils to chimney soot even to diamonds. Don’t see where this fits in?”

  Wortel suddenly seemed pensive.

 
“Are you still on their website?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they sell coal for barbecues?”

  “Hold on.” Oranges clicked his mouse a few times. “Yes, they even supply the equipment if you need it.”

  Wortel grabbed the nearest telephone. “Get me their contact number quickly.”

  Oranges scribbled the number onto a post-it note and threw it to Wortel who started to punch the numbers into his telephone. It really wasn’t a good day for the telephones.

  Wortel was connected quickly to the Carbon Footprint Ltd out of hours customer service team who point blank refused to disclose any information under data protection legislation. “Damn fools!” raged Wortel as he came off the telephone. “We need an order from a judge before they’ll disclose anything. How quickly can we get one?”

  Dorothy looked at the clock. “It’ll be a good couple of hours at least.”

  Wortel looked concerned. “I’m not sure we have a good couple of hours.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Leah Brown wanted to know how much Morris weighed. We know it was roughly 17 stone. That’s 238 pounds in old money. I’m willing to bet that Carbon Footprint have delivered barbecue equipment and coal to Leah Brown, remember, their van nearly ran me off the road just after I’d visited her to get the death threat. How long does it take to roast something that’s 238 pounds?”

  “Quite a while. It’s normally twenty minutes per pound, but I watched Scottie Rodgers the other day and he was cooking – FAST…,” Oranges and Lemons joined Dorothy in shouting out fast much to Wortel’s dismay, “…and he showed how if you use a lot of heat you can get that down to 5 minutes per pound.”

  Wortel started to run some sums through in his head. “Crikey. That means he’ll be roasted in just over nineteen hours.” He looked at his watch. “He was snatched around 6:30am and it’s just gone 8pm.” As if to emphasise the point that they were all working though without eating Oranges’ stomach rumbled loudly.