Who Killed the Mince Spy?

by Matthew Redford

  Who Killed the

  Mince Spy?

  A Food Related Crime Investigation

  Matthew Redford

  For my friends Sally and Ian…

  …they know me well, which is why I keep them close…

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. The no fan of fan ovens fan club

  2. Snow White and the seven dwarf cabbages

  3. An offer you cannot refuse

  4. Pluck-It

  5. Ten Lords a leaping; Nine Ladies dancing…

  6. Hey diddle, diddle, a Widdle store card fiddle

  7. The prunes with the runes

  8. MI GasMark5

  9. The not so secret Santa

  10. A clandestine cranberry

  11. Earl Grey has gone away

  12. Flash bang wallop, oh what a picture

  13. Why do you build me up, buttercup?

  Epilogue: Summing up a Christmas cracker

  Also by Matthew Redford

  Copyright

  1

  The no fan of fan ovens fan club

  The soft sound of castanets drifted across the morning daybreak as effortlessly as a butterfly meandering over a garden in summer.

  Except this was no summer day.

  It was a cold, brisk December morning. A frost had settled overnight, not too thick to be troublesome, but thick enough to mean that car windscreens needed to be scraped with whatever device the driver had to hand. For Mitchell it was the back of an unused library card which he had found lurking in his wallet, not that he could actually remember signing up for one in the first place. No matter, it was coming in useful now.

  Silently cursing, he stretched across his hire car and scratched at the frost. In his own car he knew he could slip into the drivers’ seat, flick on the inbuilt heating system, sit back and wait for the frost to melt away. But he was undercover and needed to make do with the hire car his bosses had provided. An old, two bob, all-expense-spared rust bucket of a car. Not only had it seen better days, Mitchell thought that the car was probably around when the engine was first invented.

  With that thought in mind, Mitchell chuckled to himself and put all the effort his little shortcrust frame could muster into shifting that last piece of frost. And as he reached out he never noticed the approaching figure from behind, syringe in one hand, castanets in the other.

  **********

  He was awake now. A groggy conscious, but consciousness nonetheless.

  He looked around trying to get his bearings. There was a stillness to the room with just the morning daylight streaking in through the skylights reflecting, glistening, off some tall metal units which seemed to adorn most of the walls. He closed his eyes and told himself to focus, his training for such events taking hold. Opening his eyes he was able to get a better sense of where he was being held.

  A kitchen.

  A sense of panic hit him causing bile to rush up his throat. Swallowing hard he tried to move and realised he was tied down. A sudden sense of nakedness overwhelmed him as Mitchell felt cold steel touching his pale, shortcrust back. His aluminium tin coat had been removed, discarded on the floor next to where he was bound.

  From the shadows appeared a tall, well-built male, dressed in a long white downy coat. His stature dominated the room and Mitchell found that he could not take his eyes of the impressive figure that had blended so elegantly into the darkness just a few moments beforehand.

  “I am the last bastion of freedom, whereas you prefer to play the game of espionage.” Although the tall figure spoke directly to Mitchell, it was as though he was talking to a wider audience.

  “I know all about you. I have watched your every movement. You tried so hard to infiltrate my group, but to no avail. For I know you are a mince spy. A failed, pathetic mince spy who in a few short minutes will tell me what I want to know.”

  Mitchell watched the tall figure step back into the shadows, all the while hearing the rattle of castanets reverberate around the kitchen. He knew he needed to act fast in order to try to save himself and he valiantly fought against the straps which held down his arms and legs. With each movement, they dug deeper into his crust, the pain intensifying as mincemeat and spices began to seep out of his wounds. Mitchell stopped struggling and craned his neck forward to see what was holding him down. Freezer ties. Two per limb. He rested his head back against the cold metal to which he was tied. There was no escape.

  The last bastion reappeared from the shadows, a childlike smile on his face. In his hands he held a long, plastic tube with a rubber top that was filled with what seemed to be a yellowish cream. With a few strides he stood before the mince spy, towering above his captive. He stooped low and eyeballed Mitchell, savouring the fear which shone through in his victim’s eyes. He raised a surprisingly soft hand to Mitchell’s face and gently caressed his latticed skin. With seemingly no effort, he gripped Mitchell’s jaw and forced open his mouth inserting the plastic tube in one fluid motion. A short squeeze on the rubber nozzle and Mitchell felt the cream ooze into mouth, filling his throat and airways.

  The taste was unmistakable.

  He was going to drown in brandy butter.

  And then, as he felt himself start to fade, the tube was removed and discarded to the floor next to his aluminium tin coat. Gasping for air, his lungs burning, Mitchell tried to refocus on the last bastion. He had taken a step back and was watching Mitchell closely.

  “Now my dear mince spy, one question to save your life. Who sent you?”

  Mitchell knew that regardless of his answer he was not going to escape with his life. His years of training meant he took one final dignified stand and he refused to answer, taking this information to the grave.

  The last bastion was not remotely surprised. He clicked his fingers and from deeper within the kitchen appeared two accomplices, one wearing a sombrero and one shaking the castanets which Mitchell had been hearing throughout this ordeal. Seeing a look of confusion cross Mitchell’s face, the last bastion felt a warm glow rise inside of his body.

  “Not many people realise that we originate from Mexico. You see that was your mistake too, and it has cost you your life.”

  The last bastion’s two accomplices took hold of the metal structure to which Mitchell was strapped and flipped him so that he was facing the ceiling. They began to carry him further into the kitchen towards a glowing light that appeared to be hovering just above an open door.

  It was then Mitchell realised he was being carried towards a fan oven.

  And he was strapped to an oven griddle.

  He fought for his life with the freezer ties ripping at his crust, causing more mincemeat to spill from his body. The aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and other spices, normally so appealing, would be the smell of his death.

  With one final ironic insult, the last bastion stood above the mince spy, a brush dripping with egg wash aloft in his hand, which he swiped liberally across Mitchell’s crust. The coldness of the egg wash sharpened Mitchell’s senses alerting him to the fact that this liquid would only bring about his fate even more quickly.

  And as he felt the heat from the oven prick at his latticed face, the last thing he saw was the temperature of the fan oven.

  260 degrees.

  It was of little solace that death for Mitchell the mince spy would be quick.

  But, by Jove, death for him would be painful.

  2

  Snow White and seven dwarf cabbages

  It was the scientific discovery that due to genetically modified food having greater volumes of nutrients, this meant the food started to develop the ability to think, breathe and talk on their own terms. The Genetically Modified Food Sapiens A
ct 1955, allowed food sapiens to be released from captivity and live, work and pay taxes alongside the homo sapiens community. While food sapiens hold above average intelligence and have been able to integrate into society, they have never worked out why there is a need to slap a lump of pineapple on top of a gammon steak.

  Detective Inspector Willie Wortel, carrot, and head of the Food Related Crime team had seen many a disturbing scene in his time leading the specialised unit within the police force that focused on fighting crimes which occurred within the food sapiens community. Yet even with all of his experience, the latest news he was hearing had managed to shock him to his very core.

  Alongside him when the revelations were being outlined was his trusted human colleague Dorothy Knox. And while Wortel was stunned by the news, Dorothy had streams of tears rolling down her face ruining the make-up she had taken so little time to apply that morning as she raced to work.

  “I have to hear this again,” said Wortel, his orange face losing some of its colour. “You are accusing Snow White of prostitution and being a drug taker?”

  Oranges and Lemons, the two food sapiens officers that assisted, in the loosest possible sense, the Food Related Crime team, stared back at their boss wondering why he was having trouble absorbing their news.

  “Boss, the evidence is overwhelming,” implored Lemons. “She walks alone at night, finds a house, lets herself in and shacks up with seven men, in this case, seven dwarf cabbages. And the men know she offers tricks as well as being drugged up, we’ve told you.”

  Dorothy Knox let out another howl of laughter, her third in as many minutes. “Sing the song again, sing the song again,” she screeched.

  Oranges gave a pained expression to his partner Lemons. He too had no idea why this was proving so hard for his senior colleagues to understand.

  “Well,” sighed Wortel. “Go on; give us the song about the druggy prostitute Snow White.”

  Oranges and Lemons counted themselves in and, quite tunefully it must be said, launched into song.

  “High Hoe, High Hoe,

  High Hoe, High Hoe, off our face on meth we go!

  With a shovel or a stick or a hashish kit!

  High Hoe, High Hoe, High Hoe…”

  Dorothy Knox roared once more and started banging her clenched hand on the table. “Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me…” she screamed, tears cascading down her face quicker than white water rapids.

  For his part, DI Wortel just stood in stunned silence, amazed that these two fruit officers had managed to get through training and now, for his misfortune, were part of his team. And yet, when all was said and done, he had started to grow a little fond of them. In fact, he had even gone as far as recommending them for Taser training, although apparently, as Chief Superintendent Archibald had told him, it was against regulations to recommend officers to be shot with Tasers.

  Wortel decided that he neither had the strength nor the inclination to tell Oranges and Lemons that they had been taken for a ride, yet again, by other members of the police force who were ‘tipping them off with intelligence’. He turned to Dorothy who was slowly pulling herself together, while searching through her handbag for a dry tissue to replace the one which lay soaked on the side of her desk.

  “Dotty, I’ve a meeting with the Chief at the Treasury offices, can you take these two misfruits through the pantomime version of Snow White. You know the version without the drug taking, the prostitution, the gangland hit on the wicked Queen.”

  “Oh, the dull version then?”

  **********

  Wortel decided to take the stairs up to Chief Superintendent Archibald’s office. It had been a crazy few months to say the very least, what with the surprise announcement from the Government Minister for the Department of Agriculture, Farming and Rural Trade (DAFaRT) that turkeys had been allowed to vote for or against Christmas, the result of which was due imminently; throw into the mix that because old age pensioners had been drag racing on their mobility scooters around town the speed limit had been cut to below 15mph; and that was without mentioning the murderous bananadrama, as the press had been calling the whole sorry affair.

  Mind you, Wortel was pleased with the way the bananadrama had been captured in Addicted to Death: A Food Related Crime Investigation – available to buy through Amazon at what he thought was the most reasonable of prices.

  3

  An offer you cannot refuse

  Wortel and Archibald travelled together to the Treasury offices where an audience with Chancellor Stephen Green awaited. Waiting in the reception area Wortel began to fidget nervously as he thought about the previous time he was here when he discovered that passing security was a much more intimate experience than a simple pat down and a look inside any bags or briefcases.

  “What’s wrong with you Wortel?” asked Archibald becoming agitated by Wortel shifting from side to side.

  “There’s nothing wrong sir.”

  “Well then sit still for crying out loud. You’re shifting about so much I’m starting to wonder if someone’s lit a firecracker up your arse.”

  “I’m sorry sir. It’s just, well, the last time I was here security was more thorough than I expected.”

  Chief Superintendent Archibald broke out into a broad grin. “Ah, I see. Yes, when I came here for the first time as a young whippersnapper I was a little taken aback when the rubber glove appeared.”

  “Rubber glove? Crikey, mine was a simple strip search,” said Wortel.

  Archibald looked surprisingly wistful. “They say the standards in this country are slipping Wortel. Seems the malaise has even infected the Treasury.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a little weird, you know, having to be, well, searched in that way?”

  “Well, rest assured Wortel it won’t happen today. I’ve top level security and I can vouch for you.”

  Wortel sighed in relief and settled back into the leather sofa which dominated the reception area. “Why has this meeting has been called sir?”

  Archibald shrugged. “I’m as in the dark as you are Wortel. It wouldn’t surprise me if Chancellor Green wanted to thank us in some way for all of the work around the bananadrama. After all, it’s meant Green has been reinstated to the position of Chancellor.”

  Both man and carrot sat comfortably in the reception listening to the piped jazz tones of Fizzy Pop Gillespie as they waited to be taken up to meet with Chancellor Green. Eventually a well-meaning civil servant arrived to take them to their meeting, but before they could venture through the turnstile entrance, a recent new policy meant they needed health and safety training in order not to injure themselves on the impossibly slow moving contraption.

  After a thirty-minute lecture, Wortel and Archibald were awarded a certificate meaning they were able to use the turnstile. However, Chief Superintendent Archibald had failed to notify the Treasury that Wortel was a carrot, and for this oversight Archibald clearly needed his equality training refreshed. A further hour slipped past while Archibald was indoctrinated in the new rules. Having promised never to have an original thought, he was allowed, with Wortel, to pass through the turnstile and forward to his meeting.

  **********

  Chancellor Stephen Green was one of those people who it proved difficult to tell their age. His face looked weather-beaten and worn which gave the impression he was older than he really was. And in some ways that helped him as Chancellor, for it gave added weight and depth to what he said, even if the message was dressed up in the usual political language, otherwise known to the everyday man as piffle.

  Archibald and Wortel were taken straight to Chancellor Green’s office where they found him hands clamped behind his back, staring out of the window, his focus on the disused power station which stood on the banks of the Thames, crumbling brick by brick.

  “Do you know,” he said, not turning to face Archibald and Wortel, “that successive governments have said they intended to turn that building into something. It was going to be an arts cen
tre, or an academy of science, or a sports facility for the poor, or fat, or the poor fat, something like that. And look, all this talk, and what’s happened? Sweet bugger all, that’s what’s happened.”

  “Are you going to be the one to make change happen?” asked Wortel.

  “Dear God no,” laughed Green. “Can’t be doing with any of that nonsense. Let someone else worry about it. I’m just here to make sure the books balance or when they don’t, to make sure everyone knows it wasn’t my fault.”

  Chancellor Green turned around and walked across to the two police officers. He stretched out his hand and shook Archibald’s before turning to Wortel. He took Wortel by the hand and looked him up and down.

  “Well, I have to say that after the Prime Minister sacked me I was living it up in Portugal on the golf courses. And then there was this food addiction scandal and Professor Partridge gets killed. There is a public outcry and I’m back in post. I guess you know what I would like to say to you both don’t you?”

  Chief Superintendent Archibald stood proudly and patted Wortel on the shoulder. “We would say that we were only doing our job sir, but your thanks are most appreciated.”

  Green averted his eyes from Wortel and shifted his weight so that he was face to face with Archibald. “You seem to misunderstand me. I was doing fine on the golf course. My handicap was much improved and now I’m stuck back here looking after the country’s finances, which frankly are shockingly bad, and I hate it.”

  Archibald felt his jaw dropping but managed to stop it before he gawped in front of the reinstated Chancellor. “But why did you come back then if you hate it so much?” asked Archibald, which was a perfectly reasonable question to ask.

  “Professional pride. I do hate this work. But I tell you what I hated more. The fact the previous chap was better at it than I was. I would never have thought of taxing food and making it addictive. I would never have thought of allowing sponsorship deals for all major tourist attractions, events and famous people. He did. He might have been a rotter, but he was good at keeping this deficit under some form of control.”