Wortel was not comfortable being thrust into the spotlight, but the media latched onto the first food sapiens detective and he soon found himself a somewhat unwilling celebrity. The successful resolution of the great crab infection saw the resources offered to the division soar, from diddly-squat to austere. However, being the new media darling was of no help to Wortel and Dorothy during their confrontation with their nemesis, MadCow McBeef. A confrontation that very nearly cost them their lives.
The ‘Pow-wow with MadCow’, as nicknamed by the press, was a titanic bloodbath of a struggle with multiple victims strewn across the food and homo sapiens population. The eventual capture of MadCow McBeef on a farm grazing happily next to the bloodied body of his former owner, Old McDonald, made front page news, with the trial at the Old Bailey covered daily by the rolling television news channels. Despite Wortel’s best endeavours, the jury accepted MadCow McBeef’s insanity plea and he was sentenced to life detention at the Farmer Giles Mental Institution.
“Have you tried these new flavoured crisps, they’re seriously nice.”
The question bought Wortel back into the room from his thoughts. He looked across at Dorothy. “What flavour?”
“Ham and honey mustard with a pickle twist.”
“No, you’re okay thanks,” he said, somewhat suspicious of the flavour combination.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, they’re really moreish.”
Wortel hesitated, decided against trying the new flavoured crisps, and sat himself down at his desk. “No news about a murder weapon?”
“No boss, whoever has done this seems to have been pretty clean in their dealings and we’re assuming at this stage that the murder weapon was taken away from the scene.”
“Fine. Look Dorothy, finish up what you’re doing and then call it a night. I know this is a new murder case but we’ve nothing to get going on just yet and I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow. When you get home give my best to Graham and the kids.”
“And are you making a move for home any time soon?”
“I will. I just want to go over the notes from the crime scene to make sure I have my paperwork up to date. And I’m sure the Super will want an update about this case as well as the Cookie trial before I leave.”
Another half an hour slipped by before Dorothy pulled on her jacket, picked up her handbag and wished Wortel goodnight. As she reached for the office door it flew open, and Chief Superintendent Archibald strode purposefully into the room, his false leg working overtime to keep up with his real one.
“Ah, glad I’ve caught you Wortel. I’m due for a late night tee-off in under an hour so you’ll have to be brief, but I want an update on this murder. Eggs isn’t it? Hmm, messy business. And we also need to talk about the Cookie biscuit sentence. I’ve arranged a press conference for the morning. We need to make sure we’re both on the same page. After all, we know the press love their Willie.”
Professor Partridge stood at his office window looking out at the evening commuters scurrying along the street heading for the train station to start their journey home. He picked up the whiskey bottle and poured himself another drink, sipping slowly at the contents as he contemplated what he should do next.
Partridge returned to his desk, the conversation with Chancellor Smith still rampaging through his mind, reinforced by the succession of emails that arrived in his inbox from the Treasury cranking up the pressure on the minister to sign his budget papers. He drained his glass, the last sip of whiskey giving him the Dutch courage he sought. He picked up his mobile and dialled.
“Partridge, I was wondering if you would call me.”
“Well, you can stop wondering now. You’ve seen his email. I’m calling you because I want no part of this deception any more.”
“I think it’s a little late for that now don’t you?”
“I don’t care about the consequences. Yes, I’ll lose office, yes I’ll be imprisoned, but I will be able to look at myself in the mirror, which is not something I can do at the moment.”
Partridge was met by a cold, stony silence, which he eventually decided to fill. “I mean it. I want out.”
“That’s very noble, stupid but very noble.”
“Don’t patronise me. You can stop this from happening. You’ve twenty-four hours to end this madness before I go public.”
“That would be a shame, especially as we can already see the results are even better than we imagined. And besides, you won’t be getting any more emails. Musa showed him the error of his ways.”
Partridge paused, taken slightly aback by what he had just heard. “What, do you mean you can already see the results?”
“Oh, did you not realise we are already at the testing stage? Very good results with our public focus group.”
Partridge went a lighter shade of green as the realisation dawned on him. “This is wrong. End it now.”
Alex Pine, at twenty-five years of age, was the only child of a traditional working class family, raised to be hard working and law abiding. A private young man, Alex was deeply affected when his father disappeared out his life when he was a just a wee nipper. Although his mother found happiness soon afterwards and was quickly remarried, the scars of what he considered to be his father’s betrayal ran deep.
Yet time, it seemed, had proven itself to be the great healer it is so often claimed and Alex knuckled down at school and college eventually heading off to university before passing his exams and taking on a job in the city with the pension firm, Whoops-there-go-your-savings. He saved hard and put down a deposit on a small but, to Alex, perfectly formed one bedroom house not far from his family home. While his mother and step-father guessed he had entered into a relationship, Alex remained a very private person and had not yet introduced them to his partner.
Life it seemed was panning out nicely for the young Alex Pine, and it came as something of a shock to his family when, quite out of character, he quit his job in order to focus on what he perceived to be the rising influence of food sapiens within society.
Alex took to his new task with relish, becoming an almost permanent fixture outside of Parliament and civil service offices, taking any opportunity to chastise ministers about the damage caused by the Genetically Modified Food Sapiens Act 1955. With no job, his debts started to mount, and yet Alex used his free time to research the implementation of the Genetically Modified Food Sapiens Act hoping to find the killer piece of the evidence that would force the bill to be immediately struck from the statute books.
As another evening rush hour began in earnest, with cyclists and motorbikes alike trying to weave a path through the traffic that was sitting bumper to bumper, the many thousands of office workers bustled along the city streets heading for home, each and every one concentrating on their journey, oblivious of the young man, placard in hand, standing outside of the Houses of Parliament.
It had been a long day for Professor Partridge and he was grateful to close his office door and make his way carefully down the stairs into the Parliamentary lobby. Swaying slightly from his earlier ‘looseners’, and still seething from his interactions with the Treasury, Partridge stepped out into the early evening air and paused as a gentle breeze blew across his face and through his hair. He despised the feeling which was welling up inside of him but as much as he fought it, he wanted another drink.
‘One more won’t hurt. Besides you’ve no one to go home to’ he thought to himself. ‘And one only, you’ll need to be lucid tomorrow when you break the news.’ Partridge hesitated as he decided where to go before he turned on his heel and set off for the centre of the city, not realising that he was being watched from afar.
Although the office workers barely noticed Alex Pine, he made sure he took notice of them, alert to their movements, the repetitive routines they followed religiously each day without thought. Alex had become adept at spotting food sapiens among the hoard of daily commuters. The rosy faced apples; the Brazil nuts; the god-awful dried prunes and t
he staggering, swaying Professor Partridge who had appeared from his office within Parliament and who was standing on the pavement trying to figure out where he should be headed.
Alex Pine watched Professor Partridge stand outside Parliament before turning and heading for the city centre. Not wanting to miss the chance to cajole the Minister for DAFaRT in person, he set off following closely behind.
The Genetically Modified Food Sapiens Act 1955 had eventually been passed by Parliament following much legal argument and wrangling. The basis of the bill could be traced back to the discovery by scientists that DNA could be transferred between organisms, meaning it was possible to develop food with greater nutrients for safe consumption by the general public. And while the advancement of scientific techniques meant that not only did GM food, and the animals from which the food came, have greater levels of nutrients but they started to develop the ability to think, breathe and talk by themselves. This surprising level of consciousness was demonstrated through various controlled tests which unequivocally proved that many in the food sapiens community held above average intelligence. Except for the aubergine, which despite many years of research remained unintelligent and rather bland.
The techniques were first applied to fruit and vegetables, who soon provided the core of the new food sapiens community. Gradually scientists were able to utilise their experience and expand the community to include all types of genetically modified food and animals from cheese to caviar, shellfish to sausages. And as the community grew up together, relationships blossomed and a new generation was born.
The Government initially kept the food sapiens in captivity, criminalising any attempts to integrate them into society. However, realising the potential of the intelligent food sapiens community to start new businesses, boost employment and ultimately pay taxes meant a change of heart was soon forthcoming. Food sapiens were gradually released from captivity following the passing of the 1955 bill meaning they were able to start living alongside homo sapiens.
While initially stigmatised by certain aspects of the media and parts of the wider general public, food sapiens were soon accepted by the majority. Leading the way was the footballer Wayne Rooster, a potato who played centre forward for Breadenham Hotspuds. While considered by some to be a tad ‘big boned’, the Rooster became a fan favourite until his excessive demands for additional pay saw him transferred to Spanish rivals Seville Oranges. The Rooster believed this to be a good move until he realised that playing in the Spanish sun would cause him to roast.
In the music field Curly Kale Minogue became a pop icon with her luscious locks and small golden hot pants, causing the male population in particular to take to the dance floor to bop away to her hit song Better the devilled egg you know.
The ground-breaking television presenting duo Ant and Duck showed the country that food sapiens and homo sapiens could work closely together, although to avoid the general public being confused about which was the human and which was the genetically modified animal they always made sure that Ant stood to the left and Duck stood to the right. Or maybe it was the other way around, nobody was ever that sure.
Not everyone was happy about the integration of food sapiens and the Daily Melancholy made every attempt possible to whip up overstated stories about the negative effect the new community had on the wider society. A particular cause of concern for the Daily Melancholy was the introduction of intelligent food and animals into the education system as they strongly believed the genetically modified food sapiens would encourage children down a path of moral corruption, with the youngsters needing protection from being indoctrinated into believing food sapiens were normal. These concerns were soon brushed aside as parents saw no reason to be worried about chickens teaching mathematics or asparagus teaching geography as long as their children were learning the subject matter.
Alex kept a reasonable gap between himself and Professor Partridge, conscious that should the minister look behind him he would stand out like a sore thumb walking along with his anti-GM placard. Partridge soon cut away from the main crowds and headed deeper into the underbelly of the city, moving purposefully towards his favoured bar, the Strawberry Strip Club, a members-only establishment.
As Partridge made his way through the backstreets, Alex realised where the minister was heading and decided that confronting him outside his favourite drinking spot had a certain appeal. He crossed the road and picked up his pace always keeping a close eye on the minister as he tottered along. The Strawberry Strip Club6 illuminated the distance, the red strobe lights drawing in its members like a Venus fly trap attracting another unsuspecting victim. Alex increased his pace, edging his way along the road in order to get in front of the Minister for DAFaRT.
As Partridge edged closer to the Strawberry Strip Club he started to develop an uneasy feeling of being followed, although glancing quickly over his shoulder he couldn’t see anybody nearby. Turning back round Partridge was startled to find a young man wielding a placard blocking his route ahead.
“So Minister, I guess you are in complete favour of all genetically modified food and animals. Oh of course you are, you wouldn’t exist otherwise would you?”
Partridge tried to focus on the man in front of him. “You should write to my office. They’ll reply to any of your concerns.”
“My concerns, ha. I don’t have concerns Minister. My position is very clear – the approach of successive governments is just plain wrong. God created Man to walk this planet. Not pears or apples or yams, not chickens who teach children or sheep who teach dance classes, or strawberries that run strip clubs.”
“I really don’t have time for this.”
“But you do have time for a quick drink I bet. Who ever heard of a drunken pear?”
Partridge decided not to respond and tried to push past Alex Pine. Alex dropped his placard blocking the path of the minister.
“I want you to know one thing Minister. I will not stop my protests and I will make my voice heard. You should listen to me because this violation goes against the natural order. It is wrong and there will be consequences.”
Partridge entered the Strawberry Strip Club, made his way to the bar, swung himself up onto the stool and ordered his favourite tipple. His hand trembled as he cupped the glass, a sure sign of nerves following the most unsettling of encounters. Either that or a sure sign his alcohol problem was getting worse.
He closed his eyes momentarily and reflected on what he had just experienced, thinking that it was the last thing he needed given the earlier argument with Chancellor Smith. He was certainly grateful for the cold drink as it touched his lips and tickled his tongue. But even as the alcohol cooled his mouth and trickled down the back of his throat, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was still under surveillance.
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6
Bunny hops
Although Wortel had told Dorothy he was going to leave the office, his discussion with Chief Superintendent Archibald had overrun and he found, as usual, he was in the office later than he had planned. And so it was the thought of a nice long hot bath, a strong cup of coffee and a hug from his wife and children that kept Wortel going through the last few hours at work. This picturesque image lasted right up until Wortel was leaving the office, when he received a call from an extremely stressed Stella telling him to stop at the supermarket to pick up more breakfast cereal, crisps, peanuts and bottled water because they had run out and the little ’un was screaming the house down. Wortel was also told to be on his best behaviour as Janie had invited her friend from college over for dinner.
Warren, he thought Stella said. Seriously. Who calls their son Warren nowadays? What was he, a rabbit? That thought tickled an easily amused Wortel as he trudged around the supermarket, dodging the flying elbows as the late night shoppers began their battle for the last remaining items on the shelves. Having survived the scrum taking place around the crisps and peanuts with just some
minor bruising, Wortel left the supermarket vowing never to answer the phone from Stella again. Still, he was on his way home now and meeting Warren couldn’t be half as bad as the in-store fighting he’d witnessed over bottled water.
As Wortel arrived home he was somewhat put out to find a rickshaw parked up his drive. His drive. A rickshaw. Must be Warren. Now while he was not going to judge him, this did not bode well. The jumped up little bleeder. Not that Wortel was judging him of course.
It was the silence which struck Wortel the most as opened the front door. Not total silence, as there was a gentle chatter coming from the living room, but it certainly hadn’t been this quiet in the house in years. Well, not since the kids were born really. Hearing Wortel let himself in, Stella made her excuses and poked her head around the living room door.
“Hello dear,” she called, somewhat artificially. “Did you have a good day? Yes. Good. Come in and meet Warren.”
Stella was pointing towards the living room in a far from discreet manner. Wortel looked at her, puzzled by her behaviour and even more so by her wide eyed appearance. He gave her a peck on the cheek, raised his eyebrows at her quizzically and walked into his living room. And there sat Warren. A rabbit. A great big lump of a rabbit. Wearing a powder puff blue suit. With a pocket watch. And he had a top hat. It suddenly didn’t seem so funny.
Addicted to Death Page 5
