Who Killed the Mince Spy?

by Matthew Redford

  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” Nicholas chuckled as he walked across to a small handmade wooden cabinet which was fixed to the wall. He opened the cabinet door, looked at the contents inside and withdrew a long, sharp-pointed syringe.

  5

  Ten Lords a leaping; Nine Ladies dancing…

  Wortel and the team arrived at Goodeatery, the restaurant of Scottie Rodgers the famous celebrity chef. The call to the Food Related Crime team had been made earlier by a member of the restaurant cleaning staff – they had a found a body.

  The journey had been one which Wortel was trying to forget mainly because Oranges and Lemons had spent most of the time asking if they were there yet, while Dorothy was blathering on about it being a sure sign Christmas was coming, because apparently the upper classes had started acting strangely as they do at this time of year, what with the lords leaping and ladies dancing among other things. And then when he turned on the car radio all they were talking about was the result of the turkey referendum and the disclosure that Ned St.NoBalls had issued a statement saying he was only 7½ in favour of a turkey dinner anyway.

  A police commissioned double-decker bus pulled up at the scene and from the rear entrance alighted the medical examiner Dr Richards, her overly large head being the first thing that caught Dorothy’s attention, which was far from surprising as most people tended to take a second, and sometimes, third glance when Dr Richards first appeared. Dr Richards was carrying her medical bag and as she departed the police bus she called out a cheery farewell to the conductor. She spotted Dorothy and waved before heading into Goodeatery. Dorothy gave a wave back and admired the way Dr Richards was able to ignore the gasps and stares from onlookers. There were only two occasions when Dorothy knew Dr Richards was conscious about the size of her head. Once during the recent egg beating case when an allergic reaction caused her head to swell to an even larger size, and once when she wore a red hat and while walking down the road, traffic mistook her for a stop sign. She had struggled for some time to get over the embarrassment of the four-mile tailback that had occurred.

  The scene inside of Goodeatery was one of the most horrific the Food Related Crime team had faced, with the burnt body of Mitchell the mince spy, trapped within a fan oven. While his charred features were barely recognisable, it was clear he had been tied to the griddle and that his face, or what remained of his face, was looking out towards whoever had placed him inside the oven.

  Dr Richards had the unenviable task of removing Mitchell from the oven.

  “Morning everyone,” she said not lifting her big moon face from the corpse, which was a relief to them all, as she could have easily sent them scattering like skittles across the crime scene.

  She continued apace. “Seems to me like we have some sort of pie here. Although my autopsy will confirm what type, I suspect it is a mince pie what with the aroma.”

  Everyone hated to admit it at a crime scene, but even though he was badly burnt, now that the oven door had been opened he smelt divine.

  “I cannot determine a time of death yet but the cause is clear. I will try to be more accurate when I have him back on the slab. And for the record Wortel, the fan oven was turned off when we arrived. The cleaner told me they never touched the scene, so your murderer, and let’s be clear this is not death by misadventure, watched the mince pie die and then turned the oven off.”

  As Wortel and Dorothy absorbed that rather disturbing fact, Oranges and Lemons giggled that Dr Richards had said ‘mince pie die’ and therefore she was a poet but did not know it.

  “And what are you two giggling about?” enquired Wortel, far from impressed at their crime scene conduct.

  Both Oranges and Lemons shook their head and never answered although they did a pantomime style thigh slap for good measure.

  “Slap your thigh again and I’ll slap your head,” Wortel warned them.

  “Abusing a fellow officer, that won’t do at all,” Dorothy teased him.

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No, not really. Look boys, come here.”

  Oranges and Lemons trotted over to Dorothy who asked them to make a list of kitchen staff members and their current whereabouts. A look of seriousness came across their faces as they went about their business. Either that or they both had constipation.

  Wortel and Dorothy walked through the Goodeatery kitchen looking for anything that might be evidence in the murder which they were now investigating. Across the kitchen floor Dorothy spotted the aluminium coat which Mitchell had been wearing. Catching Wortel’s attention she pointed to where the coat lay. Wortel nodded and let out a snort.

  “What was that for?” she asked.

  “Just an ironic little twist, I suppose. Only right there was where Scottie Rodgers and I had to defuse the chocolate bomb cake.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I can tell because it’s next to the station of Sue Chef the Sous Chef, but between the station of the Soup Chef and the Suet Chef.”

  “Oh yes,” replied Dorothy, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “I seem to recall you mentioning that once or twice before.”

  It had only been a few months earlier that Wortel had found himself at Goodeatery with the celebrity chef Scottie Rodgers, running bravely into danger to rescue Donatella DiMaggio, another celebrity chef, who had been kidnapped and tied up in the store room. They managed to defuse a chocolate bomb cake with just seconds to spare using only some noodles, a spatula and a can of whipped cream. The event resulted in Donatella DiMaggio and Scottie Rodgers beginning a torrid love affair from which he had not yet recovered. To say she was too much for him was an understatement and he was in hospital with severe back problems receiving daily physiotherapy.

  Dorothy took some photographs of the scene and having slipped on some latex gloves, she moved the aluminium coat of Mitchell the mince spy. Slipping her hand into his inside pocket she withdrew a wallet that contained a driving licence where a smiling Mitchell looked back at her. She handed it to Wortel who was busy bagging up a long tube with a rubber top that was partly filled with a yellowish substance.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked her.

  Dorothy looked at the instrument and blushed.

  “What did I say?” he exclaimed

  “Nothing. Just reminded me of an article I read once about pregnancy. Anyway, I think it’s a baster but what that yellowy stuff is I don’t know.”

  Wortel eyed Dorothy up suspiciously and made a mental note to run an internet search later on pregnancy in kitchens. As the cogs in his mind whirled, Oranges and Lemons came over to their two senior officers.

  “We’ll have the names of all the workers within the next two hours boss as well as their home addresses. We’ve also asked for surrounding CCTV footage to be sent to the office so we can review it,” said Oranges.

  Wortel was surprised by their diligence. This was most unlike the two fruit officers.

  “Well done boys,” he said. “Congratulations for thinking about the CCTV.”

  “Well it was Dr Richards really,” spoke Lemons not engaging his brain as usual. “It was her suggestion.”

  Wortel and Dorothy exchanged a look while Oranges dug his partner firmly in the ribs with a well-timed elbow.

  “Sorry boss,” said Lemons, his eyes now fixated at the ground. “Only I forget what we should be doing. Some of the restaurant workers arrived and they started going on about obese poultry and I got confused.”

  Feeling his shoulders start to tighten, Wortel swallowed hard and braced himself.

  “Obese poultry?” he asked.

  “Yes, the workers were saying Christmas is coming and the geese are getting fat. Boss, they did raise some questions?”

  “What?”

  “Who is the old man and why do we need to put a penny in his hat?”

  6

  Hey diddle, diddle, a Widdle store card fiddle

  She looked in the long mirror which hung in her bedroom.

  Perfect.

  Bright red l
ipstick. Flowing dress. Killer heels.

  She was ready for the night’s work.

  **********

  The night was closing in and the cold December air pricked at their faces as they left their house.

  The group hurried towards their car knowing that in a short while she would be standing on the street corner waiting for them.

  It was almost pick-up time.

  **********

  He was drunk.

  No two ways about it.

  Drunk as a skunk.

  Again.

  **********

  She headed out into the night and wished she had picked up a coat.

  She tugged at the bolero that hung around her shoulders. It was the wrong thing to be wearing at this time of the year.

  Still, she knew that she would be getting into a car in the not too distant future and that thought kept the cold at bay.

  **********

  “Oh, he won’t like you getting into the vehicle drunk,” he said aloud to himself. “Well, he can go and jump off a cliff for all I care.”

  He looked down at the bottles which littered the floor. He had stolen his masters store card of Widdle, low cost shopping centre for the incontinent, and gone on an alcoholic spending spree.

  He staggered towards the vehicle, opened the door and after a few attempts, managed to get the key into the ignition.

  “Thank god I don’t have to pull this thing anymore,” he said to the empty street which lay ahead of him.

  **********

  “How much longer until we reach her, I’m terribly cramped in the back here?”

  “Will you give it a rest, you grumpy old sod?” came a dopey reply from the front.

  “Aitchoo,” responded another.

  **********

  “He likes the others better than me, the fat old bastard. Says he doesn’t but I know differently,” he slurred.

  The vehicle was gathering speed and was swaying from one side of the road to the other.

  “Let’s go to the ballet again so we can see good old dancer and prancer…nobody remembers them anyway.”

  **********

  She looked at her watch. They were late. And the cold air had started to pierce through to her bones.

  Having reached the agreed street corner, she leant up against the lamppost and decided that she was going to take a swig from a secret flask which she carried attached discreetly to her thigh. Warm apple cider. Delicious.

  Looking around, she saw in the distance a vehicle turn the corner rather too quickly.

  Deciding she had time to take a sip from the flask, she leaned forward and hitched up her skirt.

  **********

  “I don’t want her to see me when she gets into the car,” the petite little chap said shyly as their vehicle turned into the street where they would pick her up.

  **********

  The swaying vehicle was violently out of control as it hurtled down one street and then another, his steering more frantic than ever.

  “I’m Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer

  I have a very shiny nose

  And if you ever saw it

  I’d say stop looking at me I just want to be a normal reindeer like the others…”

  He laughed out loud at his own inventiveness, not seeing the young lady, skirt in the air, leg showing, standing on the street corner.

  **********

  The driver of six petite dwarf cabbages approached the pick-up point.

  He could see Snow White standing on the street corner ready for the night’s action. And he could also see a motorised sleigh heading straight for her.

  If only he didn’t feel so tired he might be able to do something about it.

  **********

  Hearing what sounded like a reindeer singing a rather crude song, Snow White looked up and saw the out of control sleigh heading right for her as she stood on the street corner. She looked in the opposite direction and saw the car carrying the dwarf cabbages drift in her direction too.

  “Ah, bollocks,” said Snow White, in her thick Geordie accent. “They’ve only let Sleepy drive again.”

  **********

  The Food Related Crime team arrived at the scene shortly after the call was received and they began their examination of the head on collision.

  Oranges and Lemons had come dressed as pantomime dames in preparation for their audition the next day, while Wortel was sporting a pain his arm which was a result of suggesting to Dorothy that she should take make-up tips from the two fruit officers.

  Snow White was being carried into the back of a waiting ambulance; Rudolph was being cut from the wreckage of the sleigh not because he was badly injured but because his antler had become trapped in the airbag which had inflated on impact.

  Wortel turned to the six dwarf cabbages who had somehow escaped with only minor bruising, although the odour they omitted was rather more disturbing.

  “How come there are only six of you?” he asked them.

  Doc stepped forward. “We’d arranged to meet the other one at the theatre in advance of this evening’s pantomime rehearsal. I’ve just got off the phone to him.”

  “How did he take the news?” enquired Wortel.

  “He wasn’t happy.”

  7

  The prunes with the runes

  It is difficult to describe that strange sensation, that feeling you sometimes get in the pit of your stomach, when you just know something is wrong. Wortel had that feeling. It was there when he awoke. It stayed with him while he showered. It never left as he had breakfast, all the while dodging his son Jack’s attempts to hit him with spoonfuls of muesli that he didn’t want to eat – not that Wortel blamed him. As he drove to work the feeling began to intensify. Something was amiss.

  He ran through the events of last night.

  Snow White was in hospital with a couple of cracked ribs, a cut to her head and a fat lip. When he called the hospital this morning they had said there was nothing to be concerned about as she would soon be the fairest of them all again in around four to six weeks. Five of the six dwarf cabbages were allowed back home while Sleepy was arrested for dangerous driving.

  Rudolph was sleeping it off in a cell back at the station, and between rude Christmas songs he was being given lots of black coffee. Apparently his latest ditty had proven to be quite popular at the station and was doing the rounds. Much to Wortel’s surprise he too was humming it as he drove to work.

  “Chests and Nuts roasting on an open fire

  Nudists please put on some clothes

  ‘cos things could get rather dire

  At your age, dangly bits hang down to your toes.”

  Arriving at work he visited the canteen, purchased his morning coffee and took a sip. Nope. That didn’t make him feel any better. And when he saw Dorothy loitering outside the Food Related Crime office with a stern look upon her face he could feel the knot in his stomach tighten even more.

  “Morning Dorothy. What’s wrong?”

  “Morning boss. Now why would anything be wrong?”

  “Because you never wait in the corridor pretending to do yoga stretches. So, what’s wrong?”

  “Now, promise you won’t get mad.”

  “That depends. Why would I get mad?”

  “Just promise. And try to keep in mind that Chief Superintendent Archibald is only trying to help.”

  Wortel felt his shoulders sag and his legs get suddenly heavier. He looked at Dorothy who stood down from her praying mantis pose and return her left leg back to the floor. She shrugged and stood aside so that Wortel could enter the office.

  The first thing Wortel noticed as he opened the door wasn’t that the room had been completely rearranged. It wasn’t that the lights had been turned off and that there was a soft dim radiating from a number of candles strategically placed around the room. It wasn’t even the background music which was a mix between whale noises and monk chanting. Mind you, it could easily have been monk noises and whales chanting, i
t was difficult to say with any certainty. No, the thing which Wortel noticed first was the smell.

  You see the thing with food sapiens is that they have an enhanced sense of smell. That’s why the famous singer Curly Kale Minogue is often seen gagging on stage. It’s not through nerves as her publicity states, but because often concert-goers, and particularly those who get front row tickets, happen to be members of the great unwashed and the smell from them can be overwhelming.

  Wortel, somewhat unwisely, took in a large breath. Incense. Well, to be honest he was hopping mad actually, but it was the smell of incense which launched an all-out assault on his nostrils. That soon shifted the knot in his stomach, although he felt it was pushing something far worse up his gullet that might result in a projectile incident.

  Swallowing hard, Wortel regained his composure. He felt Dorothy place her hand on his shoulder where she gave a short squeeze. He appreciated her concern and smiled inwardly. Looking around the office he saw Chief Superintendent Archibald, Oranges and Lemons and two small, shrivelled things sitting on the floor in a circle. Well, not directly on the floor, but perched precariously on beanbags.

  Wortel looked at Dorothy and could sense that his face was telling a thousand words. She looked back at him and with a tilt of her head she seemed to acknowledge that she could feel his pain.

  “Do I have to do this?” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “If I am going in, then so are you,” she replied in equally hushed tones.

  “Well, once more into the breach then.”

  “Together as always.”

  Wortel took another deep breath and regretted it immediately as the incense burned at the back of his throat. He started to splutter causing Dorothy to slap him firmly on the back as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

  “Thanks,” he gasped. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’d have to train Oranges and Lemons up to my standards,” she replied not trying to conceal the hint of irony in her voice.