Theodore was the rising star of ‘new politics’, which itself was just a rebranding of ‘middle politics’, which itself was a repositioning of ‘old politics’ with new sound bites.
Theodore was recognised by the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Stephen Green, who installed Chuffingsome-Smythe as a junior finance minister, where he worked tirelessly for the next three years securing promotion within the Treasury as he identified dividing lines between the Government and the opposition over the state of the economy.
The fact the dividing lines did little to ease the ongoing financial crisis and improve the economic conditions for the nation was not considered relevant within the political sphere. And yet while the Treasury continued to operate in its own parallel world to the rest of the country, pouring scorn on anyone who criticised its financial path, the electorate was seemingly losing patience over the ever growing deficit.
Prime Minister Andrew Greggs was less a national statesman and more a national PR representative who could smell trouble at 500 yards. And he knew the failure to revive the economy was trouble. Big trouble. And not just for the country or his political party, but for himself. He had grown accustomed to ruling the country and he was buggered if he was going to let it go because a few figures didn’t add up properly.
With eighteen months before the country would once again go to the polls, and while WeKipped dithered over the best way for their invertebrate leader, Ned St Noballs, to eat a sausage sandwich without it looking like a pornographic photo shoot, Prime Minister Greggs summoned Theodore to his Chequers residence under a cloud of secrecy and presented the ambitious young man with an offer that caught even the great tactician by surprise. Well, he had suspected that the day would come, but not even he had anticipated it this soon.
The sacking of Chancellor Green was as brutal as it was swift. With the Unions-r-us party reeling from the Prime Minister’s shock announcement, nothing prepared them for the even more dramatic promotion of Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe to Chancellor of the Exchequer. And using a PR masterstroke to endear the newly appointed Chancellor with the electorate, Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe was presented as the simple Theo Smith, the son of farming stock who had done good.
With the economy on its knees and growth proving to be as elusive as a grown up parliamentary debate in the Commons, all eyes were on the young Chancellor Smith to see what aces he held up his sleeve. It was not immediately obvious why the new Chancellor’s first act was to push through Parliament the passing of emergency legislation which required every individual on the electoral register to attend a religious venue weekly or pay a penalty fine. It was only when the legislation had made the statute book, and church leaders were reporting problems meeting the demand because of the significant increase in attendees, did the Chancellor introduce new legislation that privatised all religious buildings with a capacity of over ten people.
The Religious Building Privatisation Bill ensured that all attendees paid a membership fee, with half the takings being returned to the Treasury coffers. The Religious Building Privatisation Bill provoked a bitter bidding war with Saintsco, the leading chain of supermarkets in the country, successfully purchasing, albeit controversially and at a grossly over inflated price, the rights to all churches in the UK.
Saintsco, who hoped that the purchase would open up new markets in Asia and America, moved to reclassify all of their stores as religious premises, meaning that customers could receive a brief blessing and pay their weekly religious membership fee while at the checkout.
With the privatisation of religious buildings proving successful, and, more importantly, financially rewarding for the Treasury, Chancellor Smith introduced even more radical legislation to allow sponsorship deals of all major tourist attractions, events and famous people. As soon as the legislation was passed in the Houses of Parliament1, Chancellor Smith2 started to see the Treasury revenues increase. The improved financial position was hailed by Prime Minister Greggs3 as being the green shoots of recovery, although most people knew that more was still required to bring the deficit under control.
Although a political gamble with the impending election, Chancellor Smith decided to launch a comprehensive spending review, in part to try to identify ways of boosting revenue and cutting expenditure, but mainly to force WeKipped to accept his budget plans. As the realisation dawned on his colleagues that Chancellor Smith was sticking by his spending review, ministers and civil servants alike started to trawl through their budgets looking for savings to present to the Treasury.
The panicked sound of civil servants looking for savings was met by the distant but equally pained groan of stationery companies who saw the end of the gravy train of charging government departments different amounts for the same item. The climate of fear within Whitehall was heightened by ‘unauthorised’ press briefings which let it be known which departments were working, and more importantly not working, with the Treasury to deliver the required savings.
Professor Perry Partridge, a fifty-five year old academic pear, was the minister responsible for the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Rural Trade (DAFaRT)4, which remained one of the few ministries yet to finalise their budget. Perry Partridge was a short pear with an overlong neck that only helped to emphasise the surprising degree of chubbiness around his middle. Partridge possessed a strong pair of deep set eyes, grey in colour, which, when combined with his steel rimmed glasses that were often found perching on the end of his nose, made anybody on the end of a Partridge stare feel as though he was delving deep into their soul.
A thoughtful pear, Partridge would often find himself misunderstood, considered by many to be aloof and more attuned to a world of theory than hardnosed practicality. And yet those who took the time to get to know Partridge knew this to be an unfair reflection of a pear whose inner compass guided everything that he did regardless of popular opinion. And those who really got to know him knew how Partridge loved his wallop, with a spiced glass of red wine his favourite tipple.
Professor Partridge sat in his Westminster office trying to read the briefing papers left for him by his junior ministers, his head clouded by the drinks reception he had attended the night before – his mind fuzzy from a combination of having one too many followed by a lack of sleep. He reached into his desk drawer, found his emergency paracetamol and some bottled water. Gulping down a capsule, he felt the tablet begin to white water raft down his throat disappearing into his chest cavity dissolving into his blood stream to begin its ascent back up towards the throbbing sensation that was his forehead. There was no doubt about it – water tasted so much better when it accompanied whiskey.
Taking off his glasses and rubbing his sleep deprived eyes, Partridge noticed the Daily Forecaster perched on the corner of his desk. This national tabloid had a remarkable record for delivering scoops, although whether the information was always obtained legally was a different question. Its front page screamed indignation at the Minister for DAFaRT for attending the drinks reception rather than agreeing his departmental budget. ‘DRUNK ON POWER WHILE WE SUFFER!’
A sharp knock at the door caused Partridge to raise his head, his eyes searching for something clear to focus on before the room started to spin. Gathering himself he called out, “It’s open!”
Chancellor Smith walked into the office, his thick blond hair swept back with its natural kink giving it the appearance of a wave rising high ready to crash on the shore below. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite his colleague.
“Well it’s all been happening this morning Prof. I was ambushed on my way here near to the London Eye5 by that pesky protestor fellow, you know the chappie, waving his anti-GM produce banner again. Apparently, food sapiens are running the world and need to be stopped. Well Prof, you’ll be pleased that I told him the last time I looked, the cabinet was not overrun with food sapiens and that to me the cabinet seemed to be a perfectly balanced group reflective of society at large. Assuming of course the society at large is white, male an
d privately educated.”
Laughing at his own story, Chancellor Smith’s eyes settled on the front of the Daily Forecaster.
“Unfortunate business.”
“Cut the crap Smith, I know you’ve set this up.”
“Not true my dear Prof. These negative headlines do not help the party in the polls. You see, we all end up being tarnished by the same brush. Just a pity you hadn’t signed off your budget before you were snapped at that drinks party. I somehow doubt this story would have made a footnote had the budget been agreed.”
“You really are a little shit.”
“Well, one’s head must be thumping this morning Prof. For someone with your academic background, your language is, well, industrial.”
“So you’re denying you had anything to do with this then?” Partridge picked up the paper, folded it in half and tossed it across his desk so that it fell into the sneering Chancellor’s lap.
“Not my style Prof. Now look, I don’t wish to be a bore but your budget does need to be finalised. You know my view. That contract will be worth at least £30bn–£40bn to us in the first year and if all goes well it could easily treble, even quadruple in value over the life of the next Parliament. And my good fellow, we need that revenue coming into the Treasury, so do put your hangover to one side and sign off on the paperwork.”
“I’m more concerned about putting my morals to one side, dear boy. This project crosses the line. Clearly you have no such problem, but then, of course silly me, you need to have morals to begin with before you can worry about betraying them.”
Partridge spat out the last sentence, making his words as sharp as possible and willing each one to dig deep into his colleague. Chancellor Smith stood quickly; tapped the newspaper against his thigh and dropped it back onto the desk. Partridge noticed how quickly the young man moved – a few strides and he was at the office door. Smith opened the door, and stepped partially into the corridor before turning back to face Partridge, whose eyes were boring a hole into the back of his head.
Smith paused, gathering his thoughts before his patronising tone caressed the words effortlessly.
“I really don’t understand this animosity Prof. I am not responsible for you being a drunk. Let’s be frank, it was only a matter of time before you were pictured somewhere. But before you give me another sermon on morals, I might ask you to think about your role in the development of the project. I don’t recall you backing away when the idea was first raised.”
“That’s because you and your cronies had me over a barrel. And all because I made the fatal mistake of turning to you for help to cover up that kiss and tell story.”
“And I was there for you Prof. You now need to be here for me when I need you. So as I’ve said before. If you think I’m behind that story then please do show me the evidence.”
Partridge stood from his chair, sucking his rotund middle in as far as he could. “Oh Honest Iago. I know thou’rt full of love and honesty. And weigh’st thy words before thou givest them breath. Therefore these stops of thine fright me more.”
Smith absorbed the barb, his curled top lip acting as his own built-in armour. He looked straight at Professor Partridge and started to clap his hands in mock applause.
“I must congratulate you on being able to quote Othello at this time of the morning, especially as I assume, judging by your complexion, that you have a hangover. Bravo indeed. Although you must realise that your intellect has never been in doubt, just your ability to keep a handle on running your portfolio. Oh, and of course turning up for cabinet meetings sober.”
He stepped back into the office, closing the door behind him.
“I would hate to see the Prime Minister have to sack the only food sapiens member of the cabinet, but the ball is in your court. I may be able to persuade him to support you, but there’s just one thing. If you know what’s good for you – sign off your fucking budget!”
1 Sponsored by Rat Removal Limited
2 Sponsored by Screwuover Investment Banking Ltd
3 Sponsored by Pastries, Pies and Treats family cake makers
4 Sponsored by Softly Softly, toilet paper for the discerning bottom
5 Sponsored by the Cataract Corporation: Seeing you right – ‘London Eye ticket price latest – reduced if you have an eye defect. Glass eye? – get 50% off’
5
The Genetically Modified Food Sapiens Act 1955
Following the commotion caused by Judge Jones’ ruling, Wortel spent the afternoon with Fatima Jaffy toasting the success of the case. Wortel left the courtroom, returning to police headquarters by sneaking in via the tradesman entrance to avoid the pack of journalists waiting out the front vying for a Cookie related quote. Slipping off his jacket and loosening his tie, Wortel walked back into his office and nodded to his long time number two, Sergeant Dorothy Knox, who was busy fending off another telephone call from a reporter desperate to speak to DI Wortel.
“Yes, I do understand and thank you again for calling but DI Wortel will not be making a statement on the Cookie case. The Division has issued a press release and you should refer to that for any more information.”
Dorothy ended the call before the reporter had the chance to extend the conversation, let out a long, deep sigh and decided it was in their best interests to leave the receiver off the hook.
“Good result boss.”
“Yeah it was, thanks Dotty. I take it the phone has been a touch on the busy side since?”
“You could say that. Everyone wants to know whether you think Judge Jones was overly harsh ordering the dunking of the Cookies. Seems perfectly fair to me, but I’ve not told anyone that so far.”
“Probably best you don’t Dotty, I doubt that would sit well with Chief Superintendent Archibald if he was to realise that we have views of our own. Anyway, what’s the latest news on the Beaconborne Avenue murders?”
Dorothy stretched her arms out above her head and reached for the sky. A small sharp cracking noise was heard, causing Wortel to cringe, and Dorothy to feel satisfied with her efforts. Shrugging her shoulders and shaking out her arms, Dorothy stood up and decided to stretch her back further by bending and touching her toes. Not that her exercise regime ever stopped her from thinking and talking at the same time.
“You were right; the motive couldn’t have been a disturbed burglar. The pooling of the yolk and the location of the shell fragments on the garden path suggests that is where the attack took place, and whoever committed the murder went through the front using the couple’s door keys. Rubenstein has reported that their computer has definitely been stolen and the rest of the house has been turned over. Too difficult to say if anything else has been taken.”
Dorothy finished her stretching and flicked at some notes she had scribbled on her pad.
“Dr Wilkinson has taken the bodies back to the mortuary, although he has said that the autopsy is going to be delayed because he needs to put the eggshells back together again and he is, quote ‘no jigsaw fan’. We still need formal identification, but we’re pretty sure the deceased were married and are Benedict and Darcy Blacktail.”
Wortel pulled a plastic cup from the water machine container and filled it as Dorothy brought him up to date with case developments. He sipped at the water and contemplated what he heard.
“Okay. I’m not too worried about the formal ID. It’s fairly unlikely that two random eggs were visiting Beaconborne Avenue at the same time that Benedict and Darcy Blacktail have apparently disappeared. No, they are our victims. What else do we know about them?”
“Not too much. Neighbours say she was a home economics teacher at the local comprehensive and he was something to do with food science technology. They were quiet, kept themselves to themselves. There were some mutterings about having food sapiens as neighbours and something else about some of the local youths shouting obscenities at them both, but nothing that would imply their lives were in danger.”
“Do we know what is meant by food science
technology? Is that connected to AstraArms?”
“Yes, that’s the one. We’ve got some officers down there now to see what we can find out. We’ll get into his office and do the usual checks.”
“Good. We should also try to piece together their recent movements.”
“I’ve got that underway already.”
“Never doubted that at all Dotty. Saying it loud just helps me to get focused on a new case.”
Dorothy smiled at her boss knowing he meant no harm. Their career paths had collided just over five years earlier when the Food Related Crime Division was established. They forged an excellent working relationship, despite Wortel being a carrot and Dorothy being a fully formed human. Dorothy Knox was an experienced policewoman who was approaching the latter stages of her career when Chief Superintendent Archibald summoned her to his office one cold November afternoon. Thinking that she may find herself forced into an earlier than planned retirement, Dorothy was pleasantly surprised when he asked if she would be prepared to work alongside an up and coming young detective who had a tricky case of the crabs.
When a number of victims started to fall foul to infected crab meat the case soon became high profile as the public demanded answers as to how the contagion was going to be prevented. Wortel found Dorothy’s experience invaluable and together they unmasked Sammy the Shrimp, a small time psychopath hell bent on destroying the hard earned reputation of the crab. It was the week before Christmas when Wortel and Dorothy tracked down Sammy the Shrimp to a squalid flat on the high street above the local betting shop.
Sammy, seeing the two officers arrive with an arrest warrant, attempted to flee by pushing a small child to the floor, grabbing his scooter and using his long narrow muscular tail to pick up speed on the improvised getaway vehicle. Wortel and Dorothy gave chase but just when it seemed Sammy the Shrimp had managed to evade capture, his getaway scooter skidded on a patch of black ice sending him dangerously out of control of the child’s toy, jack-knifing the vehicle and flying through the air towards the shop window of ‘Bamboo-can-do’, the number one store for all bamboo related objet d’art. The unfortunate impaling of Sammy the Shrimp saw the end of the great crab meat infection, with most victims recovering following a dose of salts and the application of soothing cream.
Addicted to Death Page 4
