Sergeant Rubenstien, a father of three adorable daughters, raised his head and acknowledged Wortel. He had acted as a mentor to Wortel when he first joined the force and had watched with pride as he rose through the ranks to become the head of the Food Related Crime Division.
“Good morning boss. Initial thought is that they disturbed a burglar. The house has been turned over, although it doesn’t appear that much has been taken. We’re concentrating on the room upstairs, which we think was an office for one of them. It looks like it’s been pulled to pieces.”
“Bobby said you had a blood, no sorry, yolk stain?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” The voice startled Wortel who hadn’t noticed the studious looking locum busily working, head down, on the stairs. “We had a partial, yolk sodden footprint just near where you’re standing and another here, although this one is pretty useless to be fair.”
Dr Wilkinson took off his latex gloves, stood up from the stairs and offered his hand to Wortel, who took it and felt a firm handshake greet him.
“Very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you DI Wortel but this is the first time we’ve met. It’s my pleasure to be working with the leading food sapiens detective of his era – your success in the MadCow McBeef case was superb. Still, back to this tragic scene. It’s just a shame we aren’t meeting in better circumstances,” he said waving a hand in the direction of the door. “But that’s the nature of the work I suppose.”
“Nice to meet you too doctor, and thank you for the compliments, although I should say that cow was anything but mad, he was an evil genius.”
Wortel went quiet for a few moments as the memory of MadCow McBeef sent a cold sensation running down his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He shook his head and refocused.
“Any initial thoughts about cause of death?”
“Difficult one. Blunt force trauma to the head no doubt, but it is not immediately obvious what caused the blow. And the trouble with eggs, as I’m sure you know only too well, is that they smash. So piecing this together is far from straightforward.”
Wortel nodded and walked back to the street door, watching as the Blacktails were lifted into food bags. He looked back into the house at the yolk print on the carpet and called to Sergeant Rubenstien.
“How did they break in Sarge?”
“Not sure yet boss, we’ve not found the point of entry amongst the mess.”
Wortel surveyed the scene.
“You can stop looking. The murderer came in through the front door.”
“What? You mean they didn’t break in?”
“No. Without doubt, they were killed first and then whoever killed them unlocked the door and came into the house. This scene has been created so we think it’s a burglary. If they disturbed the burglar before being killed, the bodies would be in the house. They were killed on their doorstep.”
“So maybe they came face to face as the burglar was making his exit.”
“No, can’t be. We’ve got yolk footprints going into the house. You couldn’t have that if the burglar was leaving when they smashed the Blacktails into pieces. The murderer wants us to think it’s a burglary. But no, this was planned. These eggs have been targeted.”
Wortel parked his car at the law court, noticed the journalists readying themselves for the scrum that would undoubtedly follow when the chocolate Cookies arrived dressed in their finery, and decided to take the side entrance. He passed through security, purchased a coffee from a dispenser and wondered why it looked so decidedly chewable for a drink. Wortel made his way up to the second floor of the court house and started to mentally prepare to give evidence. From afar he heard a furore erupt from outside, the cries from the crowds of journalists matched only by the snapping of cameras. The Cookies had arrived.
Wortel looked up and made eye contact with Fatima Jaffy, lawyer and spokeswoman for the Jaffy cake clan. They exchanged knowing nods and listened as the noise from the ground floor grew louder, building to a crescendo that gradually climbed the stairs.
Two small figures reached the top of the stairs where together they turned and raised their arms into the air, the simple gesture bringing silence to the journalistic scrum while the cameras continued to flash furiously. Wortel immediately recognised Henrietta and Augusto Cookie and he paused, waiting for their usual claims of unfairness to begin.
“Today is an epic occasion,” shrieked Henrietta, her high pitched tones sounding like finger nails being scratched down a blackboard. Wortel looked to the skies and was thankful there were no canines present as they would surely have winced in pain at the shrillness of Henrietta’s tone.
“We will today see the glorious triumph of hard work, dedication and fairness prevail. For too long, the noble Cookies have been hounded by the law, pursued mercilessly by the courts and today, we have every confidence that it will end. We have friends in high places. Our friends in Parliament who have supported our long road to equality will soon be able to say that we Cookies are superior to the Jaffy clan.”
“Don’t you mean equal status to the Jaffys?” shouted a journalist from the rear of the pack.
“Equal or better. Who’s really judging?”
Augusto stepped forward, hand in waistcoat pocket, his monocle glistening as the cameras once again started to whirr. “We have been pressing for our moment in court, our opportunity to tell the world that we deserve the same tax breaks as the Jaffys.” He spat out the final word with utter contempt.
“Because of this ridiculous law they for too long now have been awarded cake status, and the tax breaks afforded to them are preposterous. We Cookies should be awarded cake status and the Jaffys should have their status rescinded. And yet there is no attempt to change the law to give us the fairness we deserve.”
Henrietta, her figure hugging dress by the Scottish fashion designer Hugo McVitie significantly amplifying her oats, stepped forward to grasp the mantle.
“We have been branded as petty criminals by the police because we have refused to pay our taxes. We are no such thing. We are martyrs who have held on to what is rightfully ours. We are not paying biscuit tax rates because we should be awarded cake status. And today, we are confident that Judge Jones, for whom, I may say, I have the upmost respect, will reach the only sensible and fair decision.”
Wortel listened to a further ten minutes of rambling justification from the Cookies as each quote became more outrageous, more clichéd. When they finally finished, Henrietta and Augusto moved away from their audience and headed straight into the courtroom, shooting a disgusted look in Wortel’s direction. As he headed for the courtroom, Fatima Jaffy fell in step alongside him, her small stature highlighted by Wortel’s carrot height and slimness.
“Are you ready Wortel? We’re banking on you.”
“I can only be factual and let the case speak for itself. But look, it’s a no brainer as far as I’m concerned.”
Wortel was called to the stand by Judge Jones, who appeared to be well past the standard working retirement age, which meant he was considered to be in his prime as a judge of the realm.
“The case of Crown versus Cookie calls DI Willie Wortel. DI Wortel, I understand that you led the investigation into the alleged tax avoidance by the Cookie biscuits.”
“We are a cake not a biscuit,” cried Augusto leaping from his seat, his monocle flying from his face.
“Silence in my courtroom! Speak out of turn again and I will sentence you for contempt of court, which carries a one month prison sentence or two dunkings in cold tea, depending on my mood.”
Augusto looked suitably chastened at the prospect and immediately sat down, his wife clutching his arm.
“Now where were we, ah yes, DI Wortel, if you would, please explain the case to me from your point of view.”
Wortel thanked Judge Jones and began talking through his case notes, explaining that after careful consideration he was convinced that the Cookies were biscuits and simply tax avoiders who
were trying to live above their means. Judge Jones listened intently to the technical explanations about texture and consistency when stale, stopping Wortel momentarily to ask questions of clarification.
Wortel stepped down from the stand after just over ninety minutes of detailed explanation and cross examination by Judge Jones. Augusto and Henrietta shuffled in their seats waiting to be called to the stand and yet when Judge Jones next spoke he sent the courtroom journalists into a frenzy and the Cookies into a tailspin.
“I have heard everything I need to hear. It is clear to me already that the Cookies have been avoiding tax and it is irrelevant what they have to say. They are guilty of tax avoidance and I want their assets seized.”
Augusto and Henrietta sat upright, shocked at what they were hearing. They wanted to reply and yet the words stuck in their throats, unable to come out.
“And furthermore,” continued Judge Jones. “They have wasted court time by disputing the case against them when the evidence is overwhelming. I’m referring them to the General Food Council, who will need to determine whether to strike them from the Food Register. But most importantly, I’ve missed out on a jolly to Hastings with the bingo fillies this morning, which has infuriated me even more. There is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to pass sentence.”
Judge Jones stood, staring straight at the Cookies, the colour draining from their chocolate coated faces. Without turning his head he spoke to the court usher who stood quietly by his side.
“Start boiling the kettle young man, we’ve a dunking to arrange.”
3
Fanny Craddock remembered
Each letter was identical: same typeface, same font size, same content. Short and sweet, straight to the point. Comply or die.
“To the ‘celebrity chef’ –
“You have played your part in the moral decline of this once great country.
“While Fanny Craddock was a ground breaker, showing her disciples how to run a home and maintain a stable family, the reputation of UK cooking has been soiled thanks to your vile television shows. Once the leaders in modern cuisine, we now lead the way in boil in the bag recipes.
“Through your swearing and overrated sporting claims; your record-breaking cooking times (ignoring preparation); your drunken, football related country-yokelness; your food-related innuendos; you are responsible for even countries like France thinking they have better quality chefs than us.
“Heed this warning.
“If within the next week I hear one more f*****g obscenity, one more ‘that’s what I call FAST-FOOD’, one more ‘ooh arr’ or one more ‘just look at my dumplings’, I will rain vengeance down upon you.
“Comply with this or be ready to face St. Peter.
“Yours sincerely
“An unhappy eater”
The typist picked up each letter in turn, folding them meticulously in half and then half again, before inserting them into the pre-printed envelopes. Someone needed to clean up the kitchen and the time was now.
Day 3
4
Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe
The Lanarkshire region of Scotland was home to the Farquharson clan, famous for their vast collection of paintings and historical artefacts. Betsy Farquharson, the eldest of three daughters, was a keen polo player and it was on the field that she met Arthur Chuffingsome-Smythe, a dashing young man, who, while not sporting the most sparkling of personalities, was from a very wealthy farming family. Betsy had inherited her late father’s eye for an opportunity, and although she had hoped to be swept off her feet in a whirlwind romance, she pragmatically decided that at her age there were worse things in the world than marrying into wealth. Arthur never stood a chance.
For his part, Arthur Chuffingsome-Smythe was aware that his looks and family connections counted for more than his ability to talk to strangers, unless of course they wished to know the quickest pain-free method for birthing farmyard animals, in particular farrowing sows. When he first laid eyes on Betsy rampaging through the field on her polo pony, mallet in hand, helmet slightly askew, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the similarity between the way she was craning to see the ball and the look chickens have just before you start to wring their necks. But there was something about Betsy, apart from her resemblance to fowl, which caught Arthur’s attention. She was interested in him. Well, he thought she was interested, which was an improvement on most people’s reaction to him.
They courted for a year before Arthur finally took the hint and asked Betsy for her hand in marriage. The wedding was a grand affair, the connection of two noble families, not strictly through the bonds of love but the bonds of practicality. The newlyweds wanted to start a family immediately, however despite years of trying it seemed as if they would not be blessed with a child. Appointments with highly paid consultants came and went and they both became resigned to what they considered to be the inevitable. In a strange way, the disappointment of struggling to conceive seemed to bring them closer together, papering over the cracks that existed in what was ultimately a love-deprived union.
And then quite unexpectedly Betsy fell pregnant. Neither Betsy nor Arthur dared to believe, to dream, that they might after all of those years finally be able to raise a child. Every day they prayed, and it was only when Betsy Chuffingsome-Smythe held her newborn son, Theodore, in her arms that she could finally relax, to believe. Weighing in at just over 5lb, Theodore was their little miracle.
He took his looks from Arthur – blond haired, blue eyed, strong fixed jaw line – while his sharp intellect and ability to manipulate a situation to his advantage were very much inherited from Betsy. His angelic appearance masked the character of a fiercely competitive, demanding young child – and what Theodore wanted, Theodore got. The doting parents could see no wrong in their little miracle, and as a result they found themselves hiring and firing more nannies than they cared to count.
Theodore was not used to boundaries, to discipline, to people saying no. School came as quite a shock to his system, and yet in a short space of time he had adapted to his surroundings and began to flourish. And it was this lesson that would stay with Theodore for the remainder of his life: the ability to observe and adapt. He waited in the background, surveying the environment, working out a strategy not just to survive but to grow, to control.
Theodore was a straight A student and when he arrived at university he had perfected the art of controlling from afar, getting what he wanted without dirtying his hands. Yet he enjoyed the thrill of an argument and he was soon the star of the debating chamber, able to employ a withering put down when required, delivered to maximum effect with his top lip curled upwards, sneering down his nose at his opponent. Politics was a natural fit for Theodore and he took to his studies with the ease of an MP filing in an expense claim.
He graduated with first class honours and, thanks to his impressive family connections, Theodore took up a position within Screwuover Investment Banking Ltd, a partly state owned financial institution, which, despite costing the taxpayer an eye watering sum of money to subsidise, was often cited as being an example of ‘successful banking’, leading to six figure bonuses for management. During his five years at Screwuover, Theodore showed an aptitude for financial management, not just ensuring the growth of his clients’ portfolios – although the premise for the growth of the funds looked distinctly like a pyramid – but making himself a mint, over and above his already substantial salary, because of careful insider trading. It was with impeccable timing that, just before the great financial crash, Theodore left Screwuover and walked away with his reputation intact and his clients wanting to lynch his replacement who had clearly failed to understand the complexities of the pyramid system and was obviously to blame for their financial losses.
During his time at Screwuover, Theodore met Lord Russell of Aberton, party Treasurer of Unions-r-us, a political party with the aim of protecting the interests of the poor and tackling the rich, who, while citing this rhetoric, ensu
red that the very opposite happened. Lord Russell saw potential in Theodore and encouraged him to become a parliamentary lobbyist, learning the ropes from the local MP, the right honourable Malcolm Harriett, who, after thirty-five years representing his local constituency with great aplomb, was to stand down at the forthcoming election.
The fact that the general public found nepotism distasteful was lost on those members who worked within the Houses of Parliament, and while Harriett privately acknowledged to Lord Russell that in terms of intellect Theodore far outweighed his own son Malcolm Jr, he had expected his safe seat to remain under the family name. After all, it was on this principle that foundations of Parliament stood.
The Unions-r-us parliamentary rulebook required a majority of local party members to vote for their preferred candidate, and Lord Russell knew that Malcolm Jr could be considered a virtual shoe-in for the seat because of the popularity of his father. But being known for the dark arts had kept Lord Russell close to the centre of power for many a year, and it was unfortunate timing for Malcolm Jr that a national newspaper led with a story of his alleged drug taking and toe-sucking tendencies just as the voting papers were being dispatched.
Although strenuously denied, and later proven to be completely inaccurate, the damage had been done, and Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe was chosen as the replacement for the right honourable and right royally pissed off Malcolm Harriett Sr.
Despite their apparent unpopularity with the electorate, Unions-r-us were victorious in the general election, winning a sizeable majority against the main opposition, WeKipped, who snatched defeat from the jaws of victory simply by being too slow to register party candidates for many of the seats in time for the election.
Addicted to Death Page 3
