Addicted to Death

by Matthew Redford

  Basement Staff only

  First floor Exotic fruit dancers

  Second floor Homo sapiens dancers

  Third floor Restaurant

  “Wortel. Up here.”

  Wortel looked up the stairwell and saw Dorothy peering down at him. “It’s messy. Brace yourself.”

  Wortel climbed the stairs careful to avoid anything which might later be needed as evidence. Reaching the top he turned to find Dr Wilkinson in deep conversation with his dictaphone while Dorothy stood studying the scene, her forensic eye for detail scouring every inch. Wortel had seen crime scenes in his time but this one took him aback. It was clearly Professor Partridge, Minister for the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Rural Trade and yet here he was lying dead, juice, now dried, having oozed from a deep head wound, covered in leaves, branches, mud and rotting fruit.

  “Wortel. We must stop meeting like this.”

  “So we should Dr Wilkinson.”

  “Are there always this many dead bodies on your watch? I’ve not even started to fit the other two together yet.”

  “It does tend to happen this way,” Wortel sighed. “Do you have any initial thoughts?”

  “Head wound with a large degree of juice loss and significant bruising around the skin. I’d say he was struck with some force. No obvious signs of self-defence. I’d be surprised if he knew the blow was coming.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Wortel went to motion to Dorothy but stopped and turned back to Dr Wilkinson. “One thing Doctor. This foliage. Well, does it mean anything to you at all? Will it affect your post-mortem?”

  “Not that much. It was added to him post-strike without doubt. Can’t see the point myself other than to try to contaminate the scene. A poor effort I must say.”

  “The murderer wasn’t trying to contaminate the scene.”

  Wortel and Dr Wilkinson both turned and looked, startled, at Dorothy.

  “Say that again Dotty,” said Wortel, looking a little confused.

  “This foliage. It wasn’t added to contaminate the scene. Our murderer has a strange sense of humour that’s for sure.”

  “Dotty, you’ve lost me. Spell it out.”

  Dorothy smiled at Wortel. “Tell me what you see,” she said nodding at the stricken body of Professor Partridge.

  Wortel turned his gaze towards the dead Parliamentarian. “I see the Minister for DAFaRT lying dead in a strip club covered in leaves, branches, mud and rotting fruit. What do you see that I don’t?”

  “I see a dead Partridge in a pear tree.”

  Wortel and Dorothy left Dr Wilkinson to start the painstaking process of cataloguing and removing every leaf, branch and piece of dried mud before the body of Professor Partridge could be moved. They walked in silence up the remaining stairs and along the corridor to the exotic fruit dance hall, Dorothy all the time thinking of the crime scene and trying to piece together the exact movements of the killer, with Wortel contemplating, with a growing sense of unease, how on earth Dorothy had seen the partridge in a pear tree joke. There was no doubt about it: he liked Dorothy a lot, but she had the capacity to scare him.

  Deciding to break the silence Wortel gave a forced cough and spoke.

  “I don’t think much of the decor.”

  “I’m not a secret mass murderer.”

  “Eh?”

  “You’ve not muttered a word since I said he was a dead partridge in a pear tree. You’re wondering how I picked that up aren’t you?”

  “No. No, not at all. It’s just that, well, I mean, well okay, yes the thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I’m highly logical.”

  “Yeah, course you are.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “You. Highly logical. The same person who thinks she hears better with her glasses on…yeah, course you are.”

  Wortel and Dorothy exchanged a broad smile.

  “The decor is crap.”

  “Dorothy Knox! In all our years working together I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear.”

  “Well, it’s this place. It’s so degrading. Some pervy old men in rain macs, drinking, well I don’t know, Malibu most probably, turning up after dark to watch exotic fruits, who are wearing next to nothing, gyrate around a pole. And the thought of those creeps trying to stick money down their fruit wrappers. I shudder.”

  “It’s not my cup of tea I grant you, but for some of these young fruits it’s a living.”

  “So you’d be happy with Janie doing this when she finishes college?”

  “No. Anyway, she wants to work in tourism. And besides, not that it matters, but she isn’t exotic.”

  “There’s a market for that.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “The barman told me.”

  “Getting friendly were you?”

  “I thought one of us should do some work and interview the staff while you were busy gallivanting around with the celebrity chefs.”

  “You can go and speak to them next time.” Wortel turned his head to one side. “I doubt she’ll want you to strip off.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Now, tell me. What do we have going on here?”

  Dorothy Knox eyed Wortel suspiciously. Her hand moved to her inside pocket where she felt for her glasses case. She secretly wished she’d been wearing her glasses as despite what Wortel though, she knew she heard better when she wore them. He wouldn’t have dared mutter something then.

  “I was called in early this afternoon by the manager Victoria Plum. She said that she unlocked the club as usual to let in the cleaners and found Partridge at the bottom of the stairwell. Dr Wilkinson thinks he’d been there since last night but he can’t give us a true time of death until he has carried out the post-mortem.”

  “Hang on. Are we really saying that nobody left by the stairwell last night? That doesn’t sound credible.”

  “That’s what I thought. I asked around and was told that someone had put a sign up to say there was cleaning in progress on the stairs. Apparently that’s code for someone not holding their drink and spewing up everywhere. I suppose you wouldn’t want that sort of thing on your shoes; it’ll spoil a good night having watched the exploitation of young fruits in various states of gratuitous nudity.”

  “Back to the case Dorothy.”

  Dorothy Knox rolled her eyes, pursed her lips and let her tongue run across her front teeth. Exhaling her frustration away she continued.

  “So as I was saying, nobody leaves by that staircase to avoid the slick of sick and Partridge isn’t found until morning.”

  “How many shows were on last night?”

  “Just this one. Exotic fruit Tuesday,” muttered Dorothy, the disgust in her voice unmistakable.

  Ignoring the tone of her voice Wortel ploughed on. “We’ve just walked up the stairs and along the corridor. Where has the sign gone?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So where is the sign now?”

  “It mysteriously made its way back into the cleaning cupboard.”

  “Finger prints?”

  “No luck. There was just a slight residue on it which Victoria Plum tells me is from her. She has to wear these special gloves made from kitchen towel so as not to leave sticky fingers everywhere.”

  “That must be awkward for her.”

  “She tells me it is a nightmare when she tries to do simple things like fold her ironing or write a letter, but on the upside whenever a drink gets spilled she’s in her element.”

  “Who locked up?”

  “She did.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Yes. They do it on a rota and it was her turn. She said she looked around, saw everyone had gone and went home.”

  “And she took the lift down one floor?”

  “According to her statement that’s what she did.”

  “Her story has more holes in it than Benedict and Darcy Blacktail’s heads.”

  Dorothy winced and Wortel held h
is hand up apologetically.

  “Well boss, I’m glad to see your levels of tact and diplomacy also apply to the dead. But I agree that she’s definitely hiding something. I didn’t press her too hard. I got the impression she is either scared or she is protecting someone.”

  “Okay Dorothy. I’ll go and speak with her.”

  “She’s in her office just over there.”

  Dorothy pointed towards the small office located across the dance floor, past the shag carpet which stuck to the soles of Wortel’s shoes as he walked, and alongside the arch shaped mirrors that had been garishly decorated with feathered wings to try to give the impression of angels floating in mid air. Wortel stopped midway, turned and called back to Dorothy.

  “Did we get a list of names of who attended last night?”

  “Pardon?”

  “A list of those who were here last night. Have we got one?”

  Dorothy looked puzzled at Wortel and cupped her hand to her ear. Wortel sighed. Making his thumb and index finger on both hands into a circular shape, Wortel held them to his face and demonstrated to Dorothy that she needed her glasses on. Recognising this Dorothy retrieved her octagonal lenses and popped them onto her slender face.

  “Do we have a list of names of people who attended last night?”

  “That’s better I can hear you now. Yes, we’ve checked them all out bar one.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Charles von Blimff. He owns AstraArms. Thought you should talk to him. Didn’t think you’d want Oranges or Lemons being let loose on him.”

  It was now Wortel’s turn to look puzzled.

  “Who?”

  “Charles von Blimff. He owns…”

  “No, not him. The other two.”

  “Ah yes. Meant to tell you about them earlier.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Sorry, can’t hear you,” replied Dorothy feigning deafness. “Anyway, Victoria Plum is waiting.”

  Dorothy pointed and Wortel turned to see the short, stout figure of Victoria Plum standing in her office doorway. Wortel smiled, took out his badge and walked into her office.

  “You must be DI Wortel. Your colleague described you well.”

  Victoria Plum offered her kitchen towel gloved hand, which Wortel took. He noticed the velvety softness of the glove and knew it was at least 4-ply. Wortel held her gaze for a moment longer than normal and in doing so he noticed a sadness in her eyes which betrayed her youthful appearance.

  “I hope my colleague was flattering in her description?” asked Wortel trying to build a rapport with Victoria Plum.

  “She said you were a carrot.”

  “Ah. Well she was accurate then.”

  “Seems that way. Look I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve already given a statement to your colleague – I’ve had a distressing time, what more do you need from me?”

  “I do understand you have been very helpful Ms Plum…,”

  “Victoria, please.”

  “Thank you Victoria. As I was saying, you have been very helpful and I don’t want to detain you for very much longer, it’s just that I need to clarify a few things, more for my peace of mind than anything else.”

  “Go on.”

  “Thank you. You said that that last night you locked up the club and that you didn’t come across anything odd.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmm. It’s just that I understand your punters were not able to leave via the stairwell due to a sign saying that cleaning was in progress. Did you see that sign when you were locking up?”

  “We have clientele not punters DI Wortel, and as I’ve already explained, I used the lift when leaving last night.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “That shock causes people to react in different ways.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Meaning that I think you are confused.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the sense that I think you may have missed the sign or overlooked moving the sign.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me.”

  An uneasy oppressive silence filled the room. Victoria Plum dropped her eyes and started to fiddle with her 4-ply gloves while DI Wortel contemplated his next move.

  “Victoria. I’m going to hazard a guess at what happened. I think you found Professor Partridge last night and for some reason I haven’t figured out I think you decided to hide that fact until this afternoon. You’re scared and that’s okay but you need to trust me. Am I close at all?”

  Victoria Plum took in a short gasp of breath but kept her eyes low.

  “Are they worth protecting?”

  The quavering in her voice gave her away. “Who exactly?”

  “Again, I was hoping you would fill in some of the blanks.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “I’m sorry. But I can’t help.”

  A steady flow of tears began to stream down Victoria Plum’s face, her black mascara etched across her red cheeks, a chequered pattern resembling the soft murmurings of a needle on a Richter scale before the earthquake strikes. Victoria raised her gloved hand and soaked up the tears.

  “I will need to speak with you again Victoria. However, it would be better for you to come and talk to me first. I’ll leave my card just here.”

  Wortel took out a small navy blue wallet from his rear trouser pocket, flipped it open and removed a card with his name, address, mobile number and email printed in small capital letters. He stepped forward and placed the card on her desk next to a photograph of a young Victoria standing alongside a taller plum who bore a clear family resemblance.

  “Is this your mother?”

  “Yes. We were on holiday in Cornwall when that was taken. We had such a good time.”

  For the first time Wortel noticed some happiness in Victoria Plum’s voice.

  “Was your father behind the camera?”

  “I don’t know who my father is, DI Wortel. He sowed his seeds and left my mother high and dry. No, the man behind the camera is the man who saved my mother from a life of prostitution.”

  “I’m sorry, I never meant to pry,” said Wortel realising now why Victoria was so offended at his earlier use of the word punters.

  Dorothy Knox rapped sharply at the office door and swung it open, the sternness on her face immediately telling Wortel that whatever the news was, it wasn’t good.

  “Sir. You need to come and see this.”

  The door hung limply from just the one hinge, its splintered wood remains pointing jaggedly in all directions. Wortel stood and looked at the door and noticed the deep, curved indent where it had been struck.

  “What did you make of that Dorothy?”

  “Bizarre. It almost looks like it has been hit with the end of a battering ram. What do you think?”

  “I agree. Bizarre. I know it sounds daft but the only other thing I can think of that is curved that way is a spoon.”

  Dorothy Knox and Victoria Plum looked at each other, raised an eyebrow and stepped carefully past the broken wood.

  “Look, I know I said it was daft, so don’t start judging me,” called Wortel after the two women, who conspicuously never answered.

  The office itself was somewhat undisturbed. Wortel looked at Plum whose eyes were scouring the room.

  “Victoria, what is this room and can you tell if anything is missing?”

  “It’s one of our IT rooms. This room controls the internal and external CCTV footage.”

  Dorothy and Wortel exchanged a worried look. Victoria headed towards the main server, pressed a button and saw the disc drive open to reveal nothing inside.

  Wortel looked at Dorothy. “It doesn’t need an IT expert to say that we probably have no CCTV footage, internal or external from last night at all.”

  Victoria Plum turned to Wortel, the panic in her voice no longer remaining in the backgr
ound. “DI Wortel. What’s happening here?”

  10

  Charles von Blimff

  Dorothy lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew a blue cloud of smoke out of the side of her mouth. She looked at Wortel, who stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, and noticed that he was starting to chew at his bottom lip, a sure give away sign that he was troubled by something.

  “Spit it out boss.”

  “I know that Victoria is hiding something, or someone, but that whole business with the CCTV footage being stolen, she seemed genuinely surprised.”

  “Unless she is a great actress.”

  “Do you think she is?”

  Dorothy reflected on the conversations she had with Victoria Plum earlier in the afternoon.

  “Honestly, no. I don’t think she knew that the CCTV footage had been stolen.”

  “Hmm. Okay, look. Tell her that we would like to see her at the station tomorrow to talk about her statement. She might remember something or at least feel ready to tell us what she is hiding.”

  “Where are you off to boss?”

  “AstraArms. I’m going to see if I can track down our missing guest from the strip club Charles von Blimff.”

  AstraArms occupied the entirety of the imposing twenty storey building in the centre of the city which acted as both an administrative office and a live testing laboratory. With its city presence and its vast number of subsidiaries located around the country, it was a company that employed well in excess of 10,000 people and was often touted by government as a key part of their long term economic plan. This cosy relationship ensured multiple tax breaks and favourable loans were granted to support the day to day running costs even though the profits of the business were eye watering.

  Charles von Blimff was both Chief Executive and Chairman, having succeeded his father in the family owned business. South African by birth, von Blimff was educated in the UK, graduating from university with a first class degree. He returned to his home country and ran a number of successful plantations, turning them from local retailers into a global distributor of food produce. In contrast, his father ran a successful, albeit controversial, manufacturing business which traded weapons and armoury to third world dictators.